“Four hundred pounds?!?” I echo.
Short Tony gives me a shamefaced look. “Four hundred pounds,” he confirms.
“Four hundred pounds?!?”
He nods. “Four hundred pounds.”
Four hundred pounds is shedloads of money. This is clearly some sort of gold-plated cow.
“I was a bit shocked as well,” confesses Short Tony. “I’m sorry – you can drop out of the cow syndicate if you want.” He uses his Derren Brown-like telepathic powers to complete the sentence wordlessly: “which will mean that my share will go up to six hundred pounds.”
“Nonono,” I mutter, tramping back to the Cottage. It is a bit of a worry, and the best I can do is to forget it for a while.
“Four hundred pounds?!?” shrieks The LTLP, breaking off from preparing a dinner from frozen chicken, frozen ribs, frozen peas and frozen mixed vegetables. “Four hundred pounds?!? How big is this fucking cow?!?”
“Well I would imagine…” I begin, trying to visualise a cow in my mind. I glance down at the freezer. We have been eating frozen food all week, and have made enough space to accommodate a side of mole. “Do you fancy some fish fingers as well?”
She gives me an abbatoir stare. “It had better,” she hisses, “be substantial.”