Millicent Pyle (53 and bank manager) appears a highly respected and successful member of her small, rural community. She contributes to village life and everyone knows her. But here, on Elderjuice, she reveals her innermost thoughts on life, her customers and her regular prescription drugs.
It’s finally over. No, not the Olympics, though I’m glad they’re almost over.
All those tourists tramping through our countryside, with their zoom lenses, foreign languages, ignoring our byelaws, was too much for me.
Coming not to actually see the games but drink in the atmosphere. Bloody annoying – nearly as upsetting as the situation with Vera, the cleaner.
She killed my cat.
Ginger sat under my desk in all his black and white beauty. He purred softly, and gently rubbed his body against my legs at some inappropriate moments. Like when the auditor from KMPG was grilling me regarding procedures for interbank money transfers and I kept interjecting with ‘oo’s’ and ‘ah’s’.
And the time when I screamed out ‘No! No!’ while giving mortgage advice to an young couple, just after the husband asked me, ‘Do you think your bank would be able to give us a loan based on our joint income?’
They walked out the bank disgusted. Wouldn’t have given them a mortgage anyway. He looked like a pompous arse and she was wearing a faux pearl necklace. Not our kind. Just like the cleaner.
Vera is foreign and she hated cats. Always muttering, ‘animals outside, not inside,’ in that awful shrill accent. So, when I turned up to work last week Wednesday and found a stiff Ginger under my desk, I knew she was the murderer.
My pain was too deep for words and tears, but not revenge. They say revenge is a dish served cold, well it was hot and piping that morning.
I picked up the phone, called The Immigration Office in London, told them that Vera had falsified her papers to stay in this country and that she was an illegal immigrant.
Two Border Control Officers arrested her just as she turned up for her afternoon shift. She cried and screamed and called on the Virgin Mary and every other saint and small deity to save her.
She even had the nerve to look me in the eye and said, ‘Help me!’ Naturally, I looked the other way. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.
I understand that Vera’s in a deportation centre, somewhere in Bedford, wherever that is. Living off my taxes, I’m sure.
Ginger turned up all bright and bushy tailed this morning.
So, you see all’s well that ends well. It’s well and truly over now.