Money

What's going on with all this global money crisis doo-da? I don't understand. Where's all the money gone? Surely it existed at some point? Is there someone out there now with huge wodges of cash under their bed, too frightened to leave home in case they get burgled? It can't just have 'disappeared.' Can it?

And what's this 'sub-prime' scam malarkey? Lending money to people who are least likely to be able to repay it, betting on the default rate and then scooping up the winnings when it all goes pear-shaped? It's jolly unsporting behaviour and I hope the (American) people who are responsible for inventing this (American) scam are thoroughly ashamed of their (American) selves. Probably not though. I'm relying on those very (American) people having social consciences, aren't I?

If I don't understand the finer points of the way this mad world works on a fiscal level, think how confused the cats are. Tybalt and Phoebe were noticeable by their absence around the house today. Usually, Phoebe waits until I'm just about to have my first bite of lunch before doing a huge poo in the litter tray. But not today. This is odd. I go in search of the pair of them for although Tybalt is very much enamoured of Phoebe (the older woman) she does not cherish his company and they are often found as far apart from each other as possible. However, on investigating some strange chemical smells coming from upstairs, I discover them both in Andy's study. The door is closed and the lights are off. There are strange scratching sounds coming from within. 'Hello, ' I think, 'has Phoebe finally succumbed to Tybalt's animal charms?' Slowly,I push the door ajar. A red light glows gently in the darkness. As I slip into the study, my face becomes entangled in what seems to be a giant cobweb and I don't feel like standing calmly and awaiting the arrival of the no doubt giant spider that made it.

So I flap about wildly, screaming AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE!

'What's the matter with you?' says a voice from the gloom. Once I've calmed down and established there are no giant spiders waiting to drink my blood, I notice Tybalt standing in the corner. He is operating a printing press. In the other corner, Phoebe is hunched over a desk, a green visor on her head and one of those jeweller's eye glasses latched firmly in her right eye. The cobweb turns out to be lines and lines of string upon which are hung hundreds of thousands of pounds of fake bank notes.

'You can't do this!' I gasp. 'This is called forgery. You can go to jail for it.'

'Nah,' says Tybalt. 'It's okay. We've checked it out, haven't we, Phoebe darling?' 'Yes,' says Phoebe, 'and I am not your darling so shut your face.' Undeterred, Tybalt continues. 'You see, we've been listening to the news. And you know all that money that we aren't going to get back from Iceland?' 'Yes,' I say. 'Well, yesterday the news said that we were going to loan Iceland money so they can pay back the money they owe us in the first place! How cool is that!?' says Tybalt, hanging another £50 note on the line to dry. I have to confess here that 'cool' wasn't the first word that sprung to mind when I heard this news. 'Moronic' and 'bonkers' yes; but 'cool'?

'I don't understand,' I say. 'Where do you come into all this?' 'We got the contract, innit?' says Tybalt, proudly. 'We're printing the money to send to Iceland.' I stand open mouthed in amazement. 'It'll be ready tomorrow morning,' Tybalt continues. 'So all we need you to do is put it in a bag and deliver it for us. Can you do that?' I don't know why - maybe it is the sheer lunacy of the idea - but I find myself nodding slowly in agreement. 'Great!' says Tybalt. 'Can you get me a bag of prawns whilst you're there. And some sausage rolls.'

'What do you think about this, Phoebs?' I ask, turning to the female and therefore infinitely more sensible half of the pair. Phoebe looks at me, one eye magnified by the eye glass. 'I think prawns spend far too much time hanging around sewage outlets. So I'll have a box of profiteroles, thanks.'