“Martini is a tart’s drink.”
“Babycham is a tart’s drink.”
“No, a Bacardi and coke is a tart’s drink.”
“Posh tart’s drink.”
“I’ve never met a posh tart.”
“Is a tart the same as a slapper?”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”
“It wasn’t an unreasonable question.”
“It wasn’t me going ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!’…”
“Who was it then?”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”
“Fred,” said Derek. “It was Fred.”
Clive and Derek raced along the Corridor of Power. They reached the Chamber of Power. Derek won by a short head. Clive pushed open the mighty door.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Fred again. He was standing behind his desk. The desk was still covered by the dust sheet. Not too much more had been done to the ceiling. Fred held a computer print-out in his hand. It was one of those financial jobbies. A bank statement affair. Fred went “Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” once again.
27
Now Small Dave was a postman.
A postman, Small Dave was.
At one time he had the reputation for being a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard. But after a very nasty experience involving the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe, a zero-gravity camel named Simon and a mothership from the lost planet Ceres, he had mellowed somewhat and was now, for the most part, quite easy-going.
For the most part.
But not this morning.
This morning Small Dave was all in a lather. All in a lather and a regular foam. He’d arrived at the Brentford Sorting Office with the not-unreasonable expectation of finding the usual two sacks of mail awaiting him.
But not this morning.
This morning there were twenty-three sacks.
“Aaaaaagh!” went Small Dave, all in a lather and a regular foam. “Twenty-three sacks! Aaaaagh!”
Mrs Elronhubbard the postmistress looked Small Dave up and down. Though mostly down, due to his lack of inches.
“I’m terribly sorry, Small Dave,” said she. “But all these printed pamphlets arrived last night and one is to go into every single letterbox in Brentford.”
“Outrage!” Small Dave knotted a dolly-sized fist and shook it. “Outrage! Outrage! Outrage!”
“I’m sorry, but there it is.”
Small Dave kicked the nearest sack, spilling out its contents. He stooped (though not very far) and plucked up a pamphlet. And at this he glared, fiercely.
FREE MONEY ran the headline, in a manner calculated to gain the reader’s attention.
“Eh?” went Small Dave.
THE BRENTFORD MILLENNIUM FUND IS OFFERING YOU A CHANCE TO SHARE IN THE BOROUGH’S GOOD FORTUNE.
“Oh,” went Small Dave.
ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS COME UP WITH A PROJECT FOR THE NEW YEAR’S CELEBRATIONS AND THE FUND WILL GIVE YOU ALL THE CASH YOU NEED.
“It’s a wind-up,” said Small Dave.
THIS IS NOT A WIND-UP.
“Blimey,” said Small Dave.
SO FILL IN THE ATTACHED APPLICATION FORM. STICK IT IN THE ATTACHED PRE-PAID ENVELOPE AND POP THAT INTO AN UNATTACHED POST BOX. AND LOTS OF MONEY WILL BE YOURS!
“Incredible,” said Small Dave.
YES, ISN’T IT!
“Paragliding,” said Mrs Elronhubbard.
“What?” went Small Dave.
“Synchronized paragliding, like synchronized swimming only up in the sky. I’m going to put in for a grant.”
“But you’re nearly eighty.”
“You’re only as old as the men you feel.”
Small Dave sighed. “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,” said he. “But of course there’s a law against that kind of thing.”
“Quite,” said Mrs Elronhubbard. “And there should be another about recycling old gags. So, Small Dave, up and at it.”
“I am up.”
“Oh, so you are. Well then, get at it.”
Small Dave made grumbling noises. “It’s no bloody use,” he complained. “It takes me nearly a day to deliver two sacks. It would take me a month to deliver this lot.”
“Then God bless the Brentford Millennium Committee.”
“What?”
“They’ve supplied you with ten part-time workers, who are out in the car park even now, awaiting your orders.”
“My orders?”
“Yours. You have been awarded the title Millennial Postman First Class and your salary’s been doubled.”
“Oh.” Small Dave puffed out his pigeon chest. “Right then, let’s get to it.”
“Well,” said Professor Slocombe, reading through the pamphlet. “When you get to it, John, you certainly get to it.”
“Thank you.” John Omally buttered toast and grinned across the ancient’s breakfast table. “I think it should provoke a positive response.”
“Guggy.” Jim dipped a bread soldier into his boiled egg. “It will all turn guggy, like this yolk.”
“Why so?” asked the Professor.
“Because every conman and nutcase in the borough will apply.”
“That is the general idea.”
“But they’ll only be doing it to grab the cash. There won’t actually be any projects.”
“He might have a point there, John.”
“No, Professor.” John Omally shook his head. “I know who’s who in Brentford. Trust me to weed out the wide boys and the moondancers.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief,” said Jim.
“I resent that.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Let’s look on the bright side, shall we?”
“Jim, I think at long last we’re actually on the bright side.”
