We talk about jobs and munny

We quickly became bored with our cloaks and have stuffed them under the sofa, to use another time.
Razor Bill stopped by with the post this morning, and stayed for his usual blether.
"It occurs to me that I'm the only person Hereabouts with a "job"," he said, tucking into a hefty bacon and double egg sandwich.
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. "What's a 'job'?", we asked.
Bill nearly choked. "Look at ME! carrying sacks of letters and goodness knows what, all over the shop! you don't think I do this for pleasure, do you?"
Bill explained that he works a certain number of hours per week, for an employer, viz. the G.P.O., and is rewarded with "munny".
"But we don't use "munny" Hereabouts. We don't need it."
"I know," said Bill. "It's all very well for you chaps to rake bins and skips for food. Not to mention your OTHER activities. Manners prevent me from saying what. The rest of us mortals have to LIVE. People talk about you two, you know."
"Well, we're not the only ones who don't have jobs. No-one else does Hereabouts. We're all self-sufficient. And by the way - how's your bacon and double egg sandwich? no trouble at all to fry that up piping hot for you and put on the red sauce just the way you like it and everything."
Bill coughed in an embarrassed way as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Very nice thanks. Suppose I'd better be off."
"Suppose you'd better," I scowled, glancing at the letter he'd brought. Oh no. It was another one from the Humungous Whacking Great Pylon and Compulsory Green Energy Consumption Commission.
I put it on the fire while Geoffrey wasn't looking.