Hi, I’m Victor. I’m what a lot of people would call “a mad inventor” and what I would call “a sane inventor” or “an inventor.”
Here’s the deal. I made this guy. Not in the sense that I “identified” this guy like cops say or I “made” him, like he’s a “made” guy like the Mafia do. I made a guy. Out of others guys. Dead guys. This isn’t a recycling scheme, though; don’t worry about that. I’m not some tree hugger – except when I’m climbing a tree to cut down a dead guy so I can harvest his lungs and shoes.
And here it is. Cards on the table. I’ll be honest; I didn’t one-hundred-percent think it though.
My Council Tax bill has leapt right up – and I’m already in the top band because I live in a castle. But now my single-occupancy discount has gone cause there’s someone else living here.
And the paperwork; what’s his National Insurance number? If he’s not P.A.Y.E., does he have self-employed tax status? I tried to help him apply for Working Tax Credit but he ate the form and can’t even spell “x.” He spelt it “d.” I ought to give him a name, I suppose, but I guess I thought I’d see him fully assembled and a name would just jump out at me. But it hasn’t.
Although he has, from time to time.
So I made this guy and now I get home from work and he’s just there, you know? Just sitting there. Sitting around doing flip all. He must have been out, what, twice? Both times he comes back and he’s either a bit singed or something’s obviously gone pear-shaped and he’s just staring at the floor sheepishly. Or at his hands.
And it’s really putting a strain on my relationship. Elizabeth will come round for a meal and an embroider or a song or two round the harpsichord and he could make himself scarce… but does he? Does he flip. And I feel I have to offer him some food or what do we do? Sit there eating while he watches us like a big dumb puppy? And he creeps Elizabeth out. I don’t know how many times she’s snapped at him, “why don’t you do a watercolour? It’ll last longer.”
Here’s an example. I came in the other day and all the milk’s gone. I’d bought a fresh pint just that morning. I tried telling him you don’t need half a pint of milk on your cereal. It’s just swimming in milk. Have a glass of milk, for God’s sake, then go out and buy another pint. Or buy those two pint bottles? I had to put that powdered stuff in my tea.
I know it’s the price you pay, and he’s a joy… yada yada yada… but it’s exhausting. I’m his primary carer and I need a bit of respite. I need to get him into a school. We’re in the catchment area for a couple of really nice Primary schools, which I’ve been and had a look at and which I really like. So, Bob’s your uncle… except…
They won’t take him. They say that, at just under six weeks old, he’s just too young. I tell them his legs are in their forties but guess what, that’s too old! I mean, come on! The only part of him that falls into the right age-range is his jacket.
Whatever. He’s at a difficult age. Or set of ages. Or average age. Did I say his pancreas came from a horse? There’s one school that will take him, but it’s expensive. That’s where you come in.
If you can chip in, that would be terrific. I’d love to get him off my hands. I mean, he’s been in the bathroom over an hour. Probably drinking out of the toilet again.