Act of Union


Bunty and Lola decided that the holiday had to come to an end, so they left Max to co-locate with Prof. Wood for a while and they took the next plane home.

Lola was flicking through a book on the plane muttering to herself.

“Whatever is it that you reading?” asked Bunty with some concern.

“It’s by some German chap and his friend, Mirkin and Angles, it’s called the Capital and it’s all about the proletariat and the bourgeois. Did you know Bunty that poor people are oppressed? I thought that they were just stupid and lazy.”

“Oh dear, ” thought Bunty she’s found a cause, and for some reason had a vivid flashback to when they set fire to their Swish finishing school and when the firemen tried to put it out the water seemed to make it worse and there was an international injunction stopping a certain Lettuce Schlepping playing with anything alchemical.

That’s what happened when Lola found a cause, things caught fire and trouble was guaranteed.

“Oh and by the way Bunty I joined the Red Party and the Violet Union as workers of the world need to unite apparently.” said Lola.

Bunty nearly choked on her Pimms.

“Lola” she sputtered, “you’ve never done any work! You can’t join a party because the colour suits you and you certainly can’t join a trade union as you haven’t a trade!”

“I disagree!” said Lola, “I investigate things so I’m a worker and the Reds are all from the auld country so they are foreign like me and culturally similar!”

“If you say so Lola.” said Bunty soothingly and continued to read her latest novel which she wrote under the pen name of Agnatha Crispy.

Once home, Lettuce repaired to Much Schlepping  and Bunty went on to Gusset.

On arriving at the gates Lola was confronted by a slightly unkempt man with a look that suggested that he was pondering a great philosophical problem. Her first instinct was to raise her eye brow in an arch coupled with a sneer for good measure, but then she remembered that she was a worker now and in the union, so as she rolled down the window in the Rolls and forced herself to be nice.

“Hello, I’m Lola Gefilter and this is my land that you are trespassing on.” she said smiling.

“I’m here to empower the workers Ms with conciliation, arbitration and standing orders!” he replied in a form of the Scouse dialect she had heard in Liverpool and an unexpected frisson went down her spine.

Their eyes locked in an intense stare; if he could withstand the Lola glare she might try him out for size, she’d never had a proletariat and wondered what they tasted of.

“What’s your name?” she barked at him, hormonally confused.

“It’s Padraig Marshland Ms Gefilter!”

Lola flung the car door open, took the man by his collar and dragged him into the passenger seat;

“Unionise me!” she shrieked throwing herself at him, he wrestled with his conscience briefly, but decided that it was probably safer to submit.

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