These were dark days for the duo. Maddy afflicted with the constipo-gastric condition that permitted only the cutest of rabbit-type sheep droppings to emerge from his orifice, and his wife stuck with him, homebound, [him] talking only shit and the great science of shit 22 hours a day.
‘Probably I’ll die some point mid-week,’ said Maddy, but was interrupted as a letter dropped through the door. The cats rushed to the door, barking and beating their chests like cats do confronted with pizza menus.
‘What is it, darling?’ said Mrs Maddy.
‘Only a hand-written envelope addressed to us containing a legal document,’ said Maddy.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Maddelinova, stood in her ankle-length gown under the chandelier.
‘Fuck ‘em,’ said Maddy, for surely they were being evicted from the shore, this beach house, rental a snip at something like their wages plus one hundred thousand pence.
‘Definitely I will die soon,’ said Maddy.
‘What are we going to do!’ she wailed and lifted Maximus, the five stone heavyweight monster cat, to her chest. He suckled noisily.
‘I know,’ said Maddy, ‘we shall move to Munich, the mountain air and early motivational playground of some great leader, I can’t remember which one exactly, beer hall, maybe it was Obama?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Germany, only a 1000 mile car journey away. It’s practically the same language.’
That night they planned menus through the new year, and his intention to stride into the Munich Industrial Temp agency wearing steel boots, ‘Ich vant job, please,’ he would say.
But, by morning Mrs Madd tuned anew, [was] tempted by an opportunity that lay Northways, her true heritage see, lay in the wastelands of Yorkshed.
‘We are moving to Skaboeuff,’ she said, and motioning to the monitor screen , she cupped a hand over her mouth, she sniggered.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘Skaboeuff, annual medieval fair, and palace overlooking village community, rental at £200 a month,’ she said, ‘there are dozens of them, all for rental, look here –“eight floor family house, twelve bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms plus farm overlordship at £400 a month, No pets.”
‘I knew there’d be a catch,’ said Maddy, ‘northerners hate pussycats, haven’t I always said as much, my love? I’ll fetch you a glass of Reisling, sauerkraut and a sausage, we can think this over,’ he said.
Seems the game is on, lady’s heading up the motorway mid-week to secure our new life free from Sussex thanes, I have to plough on a while, or forever, with the drainage boys, concerned a little, very much as to my [Monday] reception on-site:
‘Poor lad needs a poo,’
…philosophers, unsure whether I’ll maintain decorum, employment, war in progress [WIP].