'You're doing what????' says Miggins. We're sharing girl-time at the hairdressers; me getting my roots done and Miggo having a feather extension to cover up the thin patches where she has embarked on this year's moult.
'You heard,' I say, although it's possible she might not, given she has a large plastic cap covering her head as she's decided to have a few gold highlights put through at the same time as the extensions. She also has another plastic cap covering her tail and nether regions, but that wouldn't, as far as I'm aware, affect her hearing.
'Are you mad?' says Miggins. She is suitably appalled at my decision to take on a teaching job to put down her copy of 'Hiya!!' magazine, where she's been entranced by an article about Katie Price and Jeremy Clarkson in some kind of Ford Focus versus Ford KA drag racing event. 'I thought you were a writer?'
'I am a writer,' I say. 'First and foremost, a writer is the occupation that most defines my existence. Unfortunately, it's not raking in the huge wodges of dosh I need to cover some unexpected expenses that life has thrust upon me and in order to alleviate the feeling I am drowning in a financial tsunami, I need to get back to paid work. And I get paid very well, thank you, for being a fully qualified teacher.'
'Fair enough,' says Miggins. She shifts in her chair. 'Should my head be tingling?' she asks.
'Well, it might for a bit,' I say. 'But if the tingle turns into a severe burning sensation, you need to tell you hairdresser, or you'll end up with less feathers, not more.'
'So, are you giving up the writing?' says Miggins.
'Absolutely not!' I say. 'Writing will keep me sane. I've had a good year and a bit writing full time. I'm not going to throw the experience away. That would be crazy.'
'And Much Malarkey Manor?' says Miggins.
'Will continue uninterrupted,' I say firmly, because my mostly daily ramblings seem to afford several people with a modicum of entertainment.
'Good,' says Miggins, 'because I'm getting far too old to be searching for a new outlet for my obvious wit and creativity. And Mrs Slocombe will go even more crackers if we have to hush our beaks. You know how stress affects her.'
'Affects who?' shouts Mrs Slocombe from across the salon. She and Mrs Pumphrey have also come for a hair-do, although they aren't losing as many feathers in the moult as Mrs Miggins.
'You, you numpty airhead,' says Miggins. 'She's going back to teaching but you aren't to worry. It won't affect normal service in any way, shape or form.'
'Well, that's no good,' says Mrs S. 'I mean, if she's going back to teaching, she'll be earning lots of money, and us hens should benefit from some it, after all we have to put up with in that God-forsaken hole laughingly called Cluckinghen Palace.'
'Ahem,' I cough, 'I can hear you, you know.'
'That was the whole point,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Well, I happen to think Cluckinghen Palace is a very well appointed set of accommodation for hens,' I say.
'You would,' sniffs Slocombe, 'you don't have to live there.'
'So,'says Mrs Miggins, sensing the possibility of an embarrassing hair-salon fracas in the offing, 'what brought about this sudden decision?'
I release Mrs Slocombe from a half-nelson and she lets go of my ear, where she's drawn only the minimum of blood.
'We need the money,' I sigh, settling back into my chair. Mrs Slocombe gives my leg a kick as she heads back to her chair, and does that 'I'm watching you' sign, flicking her wing back and forth from her eyes.
'Is that all?' says Miggins.
'Yes,' I say, sighing again at the fiscal ignorance of chickens. 'That's all.'
'Well,' says Miggins, 'I can lend you some money to tide you over, if that's all you need.'
'That's very kind,' I say, 'but...'
'No buts,' she interrupts. 'You can have all the money us hens have earned through our eggs sales this last few months. How much is it exactly?'
'Seventeen pounds,' I say.
'There!' says Miggins, triumphantly. 'Seventeen pounds! More than enough to see you through Christmas, and getting Chris and Leane settled into their new flat, and starting your grand plan for Andy's fortieth birthday, and arranging something nice for your Mum's seventieth, and buying a baby buggy and cot, and moving house and getting your hair coloured every six weeks.'
'Thank you,' I say. 'You are too kind.'
And I spend the rest of our girl-time thinking wouldn't it be lovely if we could all view the financial worries we face in this world through the eyes of a chicken. We'd know our bank manager's knees very well for a start!
Showing posts with label Money. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Money. Show all posts
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Friday, 24 April 2009
Alistair's darling budgie
What with all the writing, running, swimming, allotmenteering and home gardening that's been going on at Much Malarkey Manor this week, some news of apparent national importance has passed me by and it's all to do with Alistair's darling budgie.
As you know, I like animals and birds. I had a Gloucester canary once called Brian who had the most amazing hair-do and could flick birdseed way across the room straight into the Yamaha organ, much to my mother's annoyance. Never had a budgie though, so I thought I'd pick up on this missed news and see if it was remotely interesting.
'What's all this to do with Alistair's darling budgie?' I say to Phoebe who is very keen on keeping up with current affairs.
'Don't talk to me about him,' she says, rolling her eyes towards heaven. 'He's in the back bedroom. He's supposed to be helping Tybalt and I print more money for the Government's quantitative cheating, I mean, easing programme, but he's being about as much use as a bicycle to a fish.'
You'll remember, faithful and regular readers amongst you, that Phoebs and Tybs have been using the back bedroom to print more money for the Government as part of their way of helping the country out of its current recession.
'Oh yes,' I say, because I'd forgotten this particular plot line and only remembered it when I was scraping the bottom of the teapot of my mind for what to blog about this morning. 'How much have you made so far?'
'£175,' says Phoebe.
'Oh good,' I say, 'We'll be out of the recession in no time at that rate.'
'Sarky,' says Phoebe.
'So how come Alistair's darling budgie is in our back bedroom,' I ask.
'Got sent here, didn't he. Undercover. To avoid the media glare. I only agreed to take him in because I ate his great-great-great-aunt Flossie about 7 years ago when I was still a wild Scouse cat, and not the refined Southern kitty like what I am now.'
'And has Alistair's darling budgie got a name?' I ask, hoping it was a relatively short one, thus avoiding irritating my repetitive strain injury with excessive typing.
'Yes,' says Phoebe. 'He is called Reilly.'
'Reilly Darling?' I say, thinking that sounded a bit posh for a budgie.
'Don't be silly,' says Phoebe, 'Reilly Darling would be ridiculous. His second now is Oreful.'
'It can't be that bad,' I say, desperately trying to inject a bit of humour into the conversation.
'I'd stop now before you get out of your depth,' Phoebe warns.
It transpires that Reilly arrived at midnight on Wednesday via ParcelForce straight from London in a red briefcase. The paparazzi were in hot pursuit and camped out on the doorstep all night until Tybalt threw a bottle of Toilet Duck at them from the bathroom window. Actually, I vaguely remember waking to a frenzy of flashing lights outside but thought it was the firebrigade and number 11 had set fire to their chip pan again.
'What's Reilly done?' I ask, thinking it must be something pretty awful for him to be sent to live in a back bedroom in back-of-beyond Kent to assist in the printing of money.
'He made a series of wild and unsubstantiated predictions regarding the country's economy and instead of keeping them to himself, broadcast them to the nation in one of the most lacklustre and boring speeches every known to mankind,' says Phoebe. 'It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't got his pages muddled up and dropped his crystal ball. That's what happens when you eat prunes for breakfast,' she finishes. A stark warning to us all, I think.
'What kind of predictions?' I ask.
'Do you really want to know?' asks Phoebe. 'It's not pretty you know.'
'Yes,' I say, completely ready for a good laugh.
Phoebe takes a deep breath. 'Venus is rising and forming a trine with Neptune which means all tuba players in the London Philharmonic will have to hold their breath for an average 47% longer during Holst's Planet Suite. There will be erratic variables in supermarket staples- eggs are up...'
'That'll make the chickens squawk,' I say.
'...but balloons are down. More money will be printed and thrown at the Bank of England until everyone inside gives up and comes out waving little white flags. If you're a granny, you'll get paid to look after your grandchildren, but why would you want to do that, you've only just got rid of your own kids, for heaven's sake. You can buy an electric car for £37.50+ vat at 900% but you'll only be able to travel in radii of 15 metres until someone invents a longer cable.'
'Like Vince?' I ask, having already decided that if Vince Cable was in charge of Land GB, I would become a woolly minded lib-dem and vote for him, which goes completely against my strident right-wing tendencies, but desperate times call for wild and wacky sit-on-the-fence-and-wobbly measures.
'No,' says Phoebe. 'I don't think you're taking this seriously are you?'
'When will these measures take place?' I ask.
'2023,' says Phoebe.
I have to admit that no, I'm not taking this news seriously. My faith in politics disappeared back in the Nineties, when dear old Maggie got the boot to be replaced by Major Grey 'n' Dreary. What were they thinking? Well, they weren't, and that was the problem. And by the time 'Sell you a Second Hand Car Blair' arrived, well, I'd decided they were all as bad as each other.
Poor Alistair's darling budgie. It's Reilly Oreful.
(Today's blog was brought to you by 'Desperate 4 Inspiration.com' for all your corny joke needs.)
As you know, I like animals and birds. I had a Gloucester canary once called Brian who had the most amazing hair-do and could flick birdseed way across the room straight into the Yamaha organ, much to my mother's annoyance. Never had a budgie though, so I thought I'd pick up on this missed news and see if it was remotely interesting.
'What's all this to do with Alistair's darling budgie?' I say to Phoebe who is very keen on keeping up with current affairs.
'Don't talk to me about him,' she says, rolling her eyes towards heaven. 'He's in the back bedroom. He's supposed to be helping Tybalt and I print more money for the Government's quantitative cheating, I mean, easing programme, but he's being about as much use as a bicycle to a fish.'
You'll remember, faithful and regular readers amongst you, that Phoebs and Tybs have been using the back bedroom to print more money for the Government as part of their way of helping the country out of its current recession.
'Oh yes,' I say, because I'd forgotten this particular plot line and only remembered it when I was scraping the bottom of the teapot of my mind for what to blog about this morning. 'How much have you made so far?'
'£175,' says Phoebe.
'Oh good,' I say, 'We'll be out of the recession in no time at that rate.'
'Sarky,' says Phoebe.
'So how come Alistair's darling budgie is in our back bedroom,' I ask.
'Got sent here, didn't he. Undercover. To avoid the media glare. I only agreed to take him in because I ate his great-great-great-aunt Flossie about 7 years ago when I was still a wild Scouse cat, and not the refined Southern kitty like what I am now.'
'And has Alistair's darling budgie got a name?' I ask, hoping it was a relatively short one, thus avoiding irritating my repetitive strain injury with excessive typing.
'Yes,' says Phoebe. 'He is called Reilly.'
'Reilly Darling?' I say, thinking that sounded a bit posh for a budgie.
'Don't be silly,' says Phoebe, 'Reilly Darling would be ridiculous. His second now is Oreful.'
'It can't be that bad,' I say, desperately trying to inject a bit of humour into the conversation.
'I'd stop now before you get out of your depth,' Phoebe warns.
It transpires that Reilly arrived at midnight on Wednesday via ParcelForce straight from London in a red briefcase. The paparazzi were in hot pursuit and camped out on the doorstep all night until Tybalt threw a bottle of Toilet Duck at them from the bathroom window. Actually, I vaguely remember waking to a frenzy of flashing lights outside but thought it was the firebrigade and number 11 had set fire to their chip pan again.
'What's Reilly done?' I ask, thinking it must be something pretty awful for him to be sent to live in a back bedroom in back-of-beyond Kent to assist in the printing of money.
'He made a series of wild and unsubstantiated predictions regarding the country's economy and instead of keeping them to himself, broadcast them to the nation in one of the most lacklustre and boring speeches every known to mankind,' says Phoebe. 'It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't got his pages muddled up and dropped his crystal ball. That's what happens when you eat prunes for breakfast,' she finishes. A stark warning to us all, I think.
'What kind of predictions?' I ask.
'Do you really want to know?' asks Phoebe. 'It's not pretty you know.'
'Yes,' I say, completely ready for a good laugh.
Phoebe takes a deep breath. 'Venus is rising and forming a trine with Neptune which means all tuba players in the London Philharmonic will have to hold their breath for an average 47% longer during Holst's Planet Suite. There will be erratic variables in supermarket staples- eggs are up...'
'That'll make the chickens squawk,' I say.
'...but balloons are down. More money will be printed and thrown at the Bank of England until everyone inside gives up and comes out waving little white flags. If you're a granny, you'll get paid to look after your grandchildren, but why would you want to do that, you've only just got rid of your own kids, for heaven's sake. You can buy an electric car for £37.50+ vat at 900% but you'll only be able to travel in radii of 15 metres until someone invents a longer cable.'
'Like Vince?' I ask, having already decided that if Vince Cable was in charge of Land GB, I would become a woolly minded lib-dem and vote for him, which goes completely against my strident right-wing tendencies, but desperate times call for wild and wacky sit-on-the-fence-and-wobbly measures.
'No,' says Phoebe. 'I don't think you're taking this seriously are you?'
'When will these measures take place?' I ask.
'2023,' says Phoebe.
I have to admit that no, I'm not taking this news seriously. My faith in politics disappeared back in the Nineties, when dear old Maggie got the boot to be replaced by Major Grey 'n' Dreary. What were they thinking? Well, they weren't, and that was the problem. And by the time 'Sell you a Second Hand Car Blair' arrived, well, I'd decided they were all as bad as each other.
Poor Alistair's darling budgie. It's Reilly Oreful.
(Today's blog was brought to you by 'Desperate 4 Inspiration.com' for all your corny joke needs.)
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
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.'
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.'
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