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A demanding guest
Always a pleasure to see my old crony ‘Dr’ Sylvester McDodgee, who arrived here last night in a New York taxicab in which he had somehow crossed the Atlantic, despite a distressing lack of cash which meant I had to pay the driver out of the Ex-Servicemen’s Club Christmas Fund, but not to worry, it’s only May and I can make up the shortfall by selling my homemade Burberry jam to members of the underclass.
Sylvester says we need not worry as the world’s largest deposit of caviar-flavoured platinum is directly beneath my house and garden, and a few days’ digging will make us both as rich as Croesus, inventor of the trouser press.
I must say he’s a hard taskmaster. He had me bashing away with a pickaxe this morning before the clock struck six, though by the time it did so several pyjama-clad neighbours had struck me, chiefly with mallets.
It’s now three pm and I’m stripped to the waist, bathed in sweat, bleeding from various minor injuries and gazing across a generously sized crater where my home used to stand. Sylvester, who’s directing operations from his deckchair with a straw hat over his eyes and a jug of Pimm’s at his elbow, says I can have a ten-minute break to drink half a pint of water and write this blog, but after that we really must get on.
We’ve not yet found any trace of caviar-flavoured platinum, though we did find the bodies of the previous owners buried under the patio (where I have no recollection of putting them), and even more remarkably there was an earlier patio directly below them with someone or other buried beneath it, and we’ve just found an even earlier one below that.
I keep asking Sylvester if he’s certain his geological map says caviar-flavoured platinum and not cadaver-flooded patios, but he just flicks limejuice at me and says I’m frivolous.
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