The Treatment And the Cure
“You are on the verandah one Sunday morning, reading a little, listening to your transistor radio which you keep tuned low so the classical music won’t offend anybody.
“I’M THE OWNER AND THE MAKER!”
You look up. An old man is standing there. He has a blanket round his shoulders like a robe and is wearing a tall hat with a ribbon of toilet paper tied to it and trailing down his back. He looks like a king.
“It’s all mine!” he shouts, staring at the ward and the yard and everything else within view.
Dunn is in the yard. He whirls round, tugging at his ratty moustache.
“Bah! Rubbish! It’s MINE!”
“Hand it over to me!” the king shouts, pointing a bony finger at Dunn.
“You?” says Dunn with a terrible contempt. He stands in the centre of the yard, hands on waist, glaring at the king. “I had my first billion before you was ever born!”
The king grips the rail. He’s enraged by this insolence.
“You never had two bob in yer bloody life! It belongs ter me! I’m Throgmorton!”
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