Alder's Tone

So at this point in time there should be one person who is now cringing. We'll start off with a true story about a chap who we'll call "Gonzo" ('cos he's a muppet too) and his experience of a terramundi. Then we'll go onto ours. I only want to make Gonzo's wife (who we'll call, errm "Mother Theresa" - 'cos she has to care for the sick and lame to be married to Gonzo) chuckle at the memory. Unless it's still too painful, in which case I'll get a good kicking for this one.

Many, many moons ago, Gonzo had gone out on the beer. As usual, there was some home-time drama. Had he forgotten his keys? Had he forgotten to keep enough cash to pay the taxi? Had he forgotten where he lived? Had he forgotten he was meant to stay at his folks rather than go home? Had he forgotten his wife, leaving her in the pub? I swear, ALL real events, that last one was an absolute beauty.

Whichever it was, our intrepid reveller didn't have cash to pay the taxi driver. So after he got into the house, the only source of cash he could find was Mother Theresa's terramundi. Now these are not your average money box, they need to be broken to get the cash out. Taxi driver, Mother Theresa - who will give me most grief? Correct, ---SMASH--- goes the fired clay all over the lounge floor. Scramble goes Gonzo to rumage in the dust for enough to pay the taxi.

Not only did he smash it to bits but Gonzo also left the mess of her terramundi for Mother Theresa to clean up. Now that's just not cricket, is it? Ungentlemanly conduct, umpire.

So when Gonzo and Mother Theresa bought us a terramundi for Christmas the same year I had bought MOTS one, we decided to use them as a sort of race. I remember her wish, she remembers mine, and we set about saving. Nothing regular, just when we had coins, as we passed them, drop "chink", another £1 coin in mine, another £2 coin in MOTS'.

I need to start saving £50 notes, dear.And so for almost 3 years the race has been on. And now, the end is near, and as I raise, the flattened hammer. That must have been something going through Mother Theresa's mind when she found hers smashed - raising a flattened hammer to Gonzo's head. Mind you, he would never have felt it!

And so the counting began.

Initial estimates before smashing:
OK for £500, delighted with £600, over the moon with £700. Same applied for each vessel, so we were hoping between us to have in the region of a grand upwards.

From the off it was clear the £2 coin was the champion. With less wasted space between coins it was obvious, really. But just how much had MOTS whooped my ass by?

It took longer for me to count because:

1. I had twice as many coins to get the same value


2. My coins are smaller but my hands are bigger


3. I'm just plain slow

Don't insert your pound coins now, they may not count but may still be charged.

And with that the results are in.

£1 coins: 603 - I'm delighted.
£2 coins: 442 - in your face, MOTS!

Eh? What's that?

442 coins? That's - yes, 884 of our Great British pounds. OK, my ass is whooped.

And until the bank opens in the morning the coins are stashed in the rottweiller's bed!

Looking back, they were started just as I'd knocked MOTS up, so we were never going to get the wishes we'd made for the cash. No currency can buy what we had tonight with the boy though (hiding under the duvet - who are you hiding from, son? "Santa, ssshhhhhh!". During pregnancy they became Ripley's jars, but I'm sure the whole family will get something nice. We'll get our multi-room audio, he'll get a nice cabin bed, and if there's anything left we'll see about going out one night. And that's the biggest treat of all!!