Still no sign of THE CHEQUE as mentioned in THE LETTER from the IR, which is a shame as I wanted to spend it on another big jar of Marmite before pay-day (seeing as there’s not much left at all, at all*).

There’s something wonderfully nostalgic about Cheese ‘n’ Marmite sarnies. I’m having them for lunch today, made by Queen Maddy’s own fair hands last night. Yum!

That’s all for now. As you were.

‹Wishes Maddy didn’t like Marmite too, there’d be more for the ‘king then›

*Of Marmite AND money.

I had a letter in a brown envelope plop* onto my desk at work yesterday. It was from the Inland Revenue.
After a few screaming laps of the office, the letter, sorry THE LETTER, was still on my desk. I decided a firm decision was needed here, so I sidled** carefully up to THE LETTER and it still failed to dematerialise.
“Come on, Omally, you’re supposed to be King of Sweden, where’s your bravado, your derring-do?” quoth a very small yet obtrusive voice in my head. Well, my bravado had been banished and my derring-do didn’t, so I subscribed instead to a further course of sidling before flopping down dramatically into my chair and grasping THE LETTER in both my sweaty paws.
Hours passed. Tick followed Tock followed Tick but as there was no fat drummer to roll out the beat I simply opened up THE LETTER, read it carefully six times and then ran a few more screaming laps of the office.

The Inland Revenue want to GIVE me some MONEY and simply wanted my new address to send the cheque to because they had the cheque returned from my old address. Gawd bless ‘em, I always said the IR were a lovely bunch of much-wronged folk.

‹faints from the furious excitement›

*Plop being a suitable word to use in connexion with brown envelopes.
** The only option when one has firmly clenched buttocks.