'So now on top of stealing from them you're having a go at people who donate to foodbanks. You pair are so horrible I can't even.'
'You can't even WHAT?' sneered Geoffrey, scraping his spoon round the inside of the tin to get the last vestiges of custard. 'We haven't said a word.'
'You've said that people who donate to foodbanks are donating crappy stuff. You're basically calling them stingey and mean. People who have almost nothing themselves, yet still find the money for a tin of custard for a stranger in need. And you two are slagging them off. '
'Did we say that? Did you actually HEAR us say that? Or is this just your unconscious bias rearing its head again to reveal you as the sanctimonious little Peter Pan-style twerp that we are apparently condemned to put up with for all eternity.'
'That's gaslighting Uncle Geoffrey. But I'm pretty sure you didn't do it deliberately. You're definitely too stupid to know how to gaslight. So you must've done it unconsciously - or, unwittingly, more like, what with you being totally and utterly witless and all that. Which makes you an utter and total psychopath.'
'Well pardon me all over the place. How old are you now Tuppence? Thirty two isn't it? Isn't time you moved on from the sixth year common room student activist stage, into maybe, oh I don't know - a job at Speedispend customer service desk or something? And while you're here - let me get this off my chest. You know what really annoys me more than anything about you Tuppence? Away ahead of some strong competition? It's your vocal fry. '
'My what?'
'You heard. Let me tell you right now m'laddo...'
'I'm all ears.'
'We're living on a rocky outcrop somewhere on the north west Scottish seaboard,' continued Geoffrey, flinging the empty custard tin grandly out of the window, 'Nobody is quite sure where 'somewhere' is exactly, but we know where it definitely isn't. And that's the United States of America ten years ago. The only 'fry' required round here involves eggs and bacon with possibly a slice or two of black pudding, some kidneys and a couple of sausages. Which reminds me of my original point - how did the foodbank comestibles find their way into the tunnels? We don't have a foodbank in these parts, so what - or who - on earth brought them here? And why?'
'Don't you know anything about what goes on round here - except your neighbour's personal business from listening at keyholes? Of course you don't. All you two ever think about is yourselves. Cripes you are self-obsessed. OK I'll tell you. If you must know, Stormy Petrel is only opening up a mobile coffee wagon cum hi-end vegan burger van in the tourist car park. He's going for the green dollar with McCartney sausages, maybe some bulgur wheat salads, hand-cut chips and buckets of coleslaw or whatever. It means using half the spaces meant for cars so the tourists will have nowhere to park but he reckons that's even greener and better for an eco-micro-business cos they'll have to take the bus, bike it or walk. He needs as many foodbank comestibles as he can get till he gets it off the ground cos he's skint. The Puff Inn's on a knife-edge - it hasn't recovered from lockdown yet. The foodbank stuff came from the donation trolleys in the Speedispend exit lane but it was all a mistake. Stormy wanted the rats to nick stuff, supposedly to order, in return for a cut of his profits. He asked for packets of Quorn mince and gluten free buns and ketchup and stuff but they couldn't be arsed hunting round the shop for all that so they took the foodbank's trolleys instead. He'll have to make do. And now he can't even do that, because you pair have stolen it all.'
'Oh...'
More later
