My attempts to get organised for the coming game fair season are thwarted at every turn. Just yesterday, on my way to check the tent sheets for holes chewed by mice over the winter, my attention was diverted by the terrier going ballistic in one of the bedrooms.
For many weeks now, things of value around the household have been going missing. I rather impetuously blamed the kids but they denied it. I even wondered whether the wife’s Jimmy Choo habit had returned after a decade and that she was pawning stuff to satisfy the craving.
It was the terrier that discovered the cause of the problem. I found him barking wildly and trying to claw his way into an upstairs corner cupboard. As I opened the door, he dived in. After half a minute of mixed snarls and yelps, imagine my surprise when he emerged from the darkness with a dead investment banker in his mouth which he shook incessantly! The banker was tiny but perfect in every detail, apart from his head which the terrier had torn off in the melee.
Despite the snot, splother and blood, the superior cut of the banker’s Savile Row suit was evident. Around the stump of the neck the Jermyn Street cutaway collar was intact as was the woven silk tie with its bra and panty motif (anything for notoriety, these little fellows). His miniscule handmade shoes still gleamed.
As the saying goes, you’re never more than 5 feet away from an investment banker. The terrier’s victim was unlikely to be alone. I got a torch and shone it inside the cupboard and there in the gloom were all our missing possessions and a malfeasance ( which I believe is the correct collective noun) of investment bankers all huddled together presumably to maximise their capital assets. Dazzled by the bright light of the torch, they also cowered before the glass cupboard doors. Any form of transparency is like kryptonite to these vermin.
Meanwhile, the terrier could no longer be restrained. He was ready for some pretty hardline ‘regulation’ and would not be denied. I almost felt sorry for the bankers as they gathered, ties awry and snarling, in front of their ill-gotten gains protecting them from their attacker. But there could only be one result. Soon the corner cupboard resembled a currency trading floor on Black Wednesday.
Whilst cleaning up the carnage, rather worryingly, I only counted 13 bodies. It’s a well known fact that investment bankers move around in pairs. They leave such a bad taste in the mouth that not even the terrier would eat one. So we can only assume that one escaped. Bad news. All that a single investment banker needs is access to someone else’s funds – a child’s money box or a purse left carelessly on a kitchen worktop – and (thanks to their asexual reproductive system) the whole problem can flare up over again.
Apparently, we had a lucky escape. If left untreated, an infestation of this type can result in serious problems. An acquaintance in Wiltshire came back from a ski-ing trip to discover that a malfeasance of investment bankers had gained access to his property and caused such structural damage to the house that it had to be nationalised! He and his family now live in a tent just outside Calne. A stern lesson to us all.