Friday, October 17, 2008
Sometimes I feel sorry for Harold.* He just wanted to be a regular guy. He didn’t want this greatness and infamy thrust upon him any more than he wanted to be a down-and-out in the back streets of London of a moderately successful entrepreneur living in Birmingham. He makes the best of what he’s got. He doesn’t splash his newly acquired** wealth about. He is your average Joe Cup-of-tea.
“So if this building is mine,” Harold said, “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Anything you like,” I said. Tim coughed. “Within reason. It’s no longer derelict so there are no renovation fees to pay. There are no taxes due on it and Tim here has collected a sizeable fortune on your behalf.”
“How?” Harold turned to the gargoyle, who shrugged.
“Mostly from pennies and trinkets that the citizens have dropped,” he said, “though there was a few pounds from recycling pilchard tins.”
Harold nodded. “What do you think I ought to do with it?” he said.
“Lease it back to the council for their market stalls,” Tim said. “We liked the market stalls.”
“And with the etchings of St. Ethan,” I added, “you could have the building listed.”
“No,” said Harold. “That would mean I couldn’t alter it if I wanted to.”
“Alter it?” Tim gulped. “In what way?”
Harold rapped his knuckles*** on the piece of stone he was sitting on. “Make room for more gargoyles,” he said.
* but not often - -it’s bad for business.
** sometimes the same day.
*** though not so hard that he hurt himself
Gargoyle stack picture from The Gargoyle Garden