'You didn't seriously think that I was going to clean toilets as a so-called career?' sneered Tuppence, slamming a 28p bottle of Tesco 'thin' 'value' bleach onto the table before peeling off a pair of Marigolds and pinging them into the fire, where they melted onto a piece of charred driftwood (which had once formed the keel of our old coracle) before blazing up the chimney in a terrific tower of hissing sparks. 'Gosh what a relief. Those Marigolds were far too big, and they were smalls. You'd think they'd make a tiny. There are lots of people with tiny hands these days, or so they tell me up at the yurts. So there's got to be a demand, it isn't only me. If they don't fit properly they let in all the chemicals and toilet muck and germs and stuff, it's a total health hazard. Val agrees with me but there's nothing she can do.'
'Anyway Tuppence. You're digressing. Not that it matters much, if indeed at all.' What on earth has he come to, I thought. From would-be prog (Canterbury school) aficionado, to arch-criminal, to bomber pilot, to submariner*, to THIS - a pathetic, whingeing wage-slave, fretting over his rubber gloves. Not that you could call £3.50 an hour a wage. Not that I knew much about wages. I'd never worked a day in my life. 'Work is an alien concept to me, Tuppence. As it should be to you. I can't understand - '
'Shut up Uncle Tuppy. Think! for a change. Don't you realise what I have access to, as a so-called humble toilet cleaner?'
'Modern apprentice so-called humble toilet cleaner.'
'Handbags. Purses. Bankcards. Prescription drugs. Low-hanging fruit, ripe for the taking.' Tuppence strode round the room, waving his arms expansively.
'Petty theft. Small beer hardly worth the candle. Added to which, they're going to know it's you within about five seconds. You'll get CAUGHT. I'm disappointed in you Tuppence. This isn't a nefarious plan - this is just pathetic and I have to say, very unlike you. Are you ill or something?'
'If I am you can blame the rubber gloves. Now that you mention it I am feeling a bit dodgy in the bottom end tummy department.'
'GEOFFREY! fetch the medical chest.' Bottom end tummies? More like brain fever, I thought. He'd have to sweat it out.
More later.
*all written down in the Seapenguin books, so it must be true
'Anyway Tuppence. You're digressing. Not that it matters much, if indeed at all.' What on earth has he come to, I thought. From would-be prog (Canterbury school) aficionado, to arch-criminal, to bomber pilot, to submariner*, to THIS - a pathetic, whingeing wage-slave, fretting over his rubber gloves. Not that you could call £3.50 an hour a wage. Not that I knew much about wages. I'd never worked a day in my life. 'Work is an alien concept to me, Tuppence. As it should be to you. I can't understand - '
'Shut up Uncle Tuppy. Think! for a change. Don't you realise what I have access to, as a so-called humble toilet cleaner?'
'Modern apprentice so-called humble toilet cleaner.'
'Handbags. Purses. Bankcards. Prescription drugs. Low-hanging fruit, ripe for the taking.' Tuppence strode round the room, waving his arms expansively.
'Petty theft. Small beer hardly worth the candle. Added to which, they're going to know it's you within about five seconds. You'll get CAUGHT. I'm disappointed in you Tuppence. This isn't a nefarious plan - this is just pathetic and I have to say, very unlike you. Are you ill or something?'
'If I am you can blame the rubber gloves. Now that you mention it I am feeling a bit dodgy in the bottom end tummy department.'
'GEOFFREY! fetch the medical chest.' Bottom end tummies? More like brain fever, I thought. He'd have to sweat it out.
More later.
*all written down in the Seapenguin books, so it must be true
