Bribery and adoption

Yesterday, Andy came home from work bearing a gift from one of the vet nurses, Sarah. Usually, gifts from the nurses to Andy involve some kind of Doctor Who theme, I can't think why. And to be honest, if they could see the contents of our loft - 5% ginormous teddy bears, 1% my wedding dress, 8% stuff Chris has conveniently 'stored', 7% stuff Heather has conveniently 'stored', 79% Doctor Who stuff - then they might not worry so much that he hasn't got a sample of every bit of Doctor Who tat, er.... I mean merchandise, that has ever been created. Still, it's the thought that counts and I like to think that these gifts show how fond the nurses are of Andy and are occasionally sorry for shutting him in cupboards and drawing on his face when he is having a lunchtime nap.

'Guess what this is,' said Andy, waving a padded envelope at me.
'Something to do with Doctor Who?' I said, hazarding a wild guess.
'Ha!' said Andy. 'NO!'

With some trepidation I put my hand in the envelope and pulled out...

...a 'BEWARE OF THE CHICKENS' plaque!

'That's very entertaining,' I said, because it is. It will make a fine decoration for the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace, the end where psycho Poo and crackers Slocombe live. Actually, the paired living is going very well. Feathers are regrowing, nerves are calming, and yesterday all four hens were standing on one leg (each, not between them. They never did perfect their chicken pyramid act) against the dividing fence having a preen 'n' clean 'n' chat over the fence session.
'I don't know why they had to install the Berlin Wall here,' I heard Mrs Poo say. 'We get on perfectly well together.'
'Quite,' said Mrs Miggins, 'especially now my bottom has stopped making unexpected appearances.'

'Who's the plaque from?' I asked Andy.
'Sarah,' said Andy. 'The one who is always asking if we'll adopt her.'
'Ah yes,' I said. 'Because of the cakes.'
'I think so,' said Andy.

Occasionally, I make a cake or biscuits for Andy to take into work for his colleagues to share. And on those days he generally comes home and says, 'Sarah says, will we adopt her?' or 'They ate all the cake before I could get a bit,' which is my cue to whip the spare one I made from the cake tin and for Andy to say 'Hurrah!'
It seems a funny criteria on which to base a prospective adoption, whether there is suitable cake and biscuit on offer.
'Tell me, Mrs Flangerhanger, can you make a good Victoria sponge?'
'Yes I can. And my French fancies are much discussed throughout the Parish.'
'Your strange underwear collection is of no concern to me Mrs Flangerhanger, but if your sponge is up to scratch, you may adopt as many children as you like.'
'And have them eat all my cake? Not flippin' likely.'

And what if Sarah is 62 years old and has odd habits like collecting 1970s gonks? I mean, she'll be far too old to re-train to our ways. My mum is 69 and I've been trying to train her away from telling me every detail of my brother's life for years now, because I have no interest whatsoever in what he is doing. (And that's another very long, very complicated story which I shall save for telling when I am wealthy enough to employ a good lawyer.)

So there we are. We are now being bribed into the adoption route with gifts of 'Beware of the Chickens' plaques. What a sorry state of affairs the world has come to. What happened to the good old days of cold hard cash, that's what I want to know.