Work in Progress

That morning just like every other dull and dreary weekday morning, i did the mundane routine I needed to, to get myself looking as though I wanted to be sat on a swivel chair by a desk that bore a striking resemblance to the other seventy desks in the same office.

So when there was a knock at the front door I didn't bother answering it until after the third knock. I knew if they seriously wanted to see me they would continue knocking until they got me or realised I wasn't interested in whatever it was they are pedalling.

This time on the fifth knock I answered, unbeknown to me what was just about to happen. My front door opened at my bidding and on the other side was, well nothing actually, whoever had been so patiently knocking for all that time had gone. It must have been just like that moment when you answer the phone and you hear the person on the other end putting the handset down. Except this time there was business card placed under the door knocker, for me to find. However when I open my front door the knocker always bangs and the business card fell to the floor at my feet in amongst yesterdays white, business post and I never noticed it for three whole days.

I don't, as a rule, open the automatically generated marketing material that I always sign up to, until the weekend and it is only opened then to help me light the fire. Marketing rubbish is great, you tick a little box on a form or on a computer to receive the very best and latest details about our miracle baldness cures. I have a full head of unbrushed hair, so i all goes on the fire, free fuel sent directly to my door mat. The wrapping on the door was consistent and long, this time they were guaranteed to be answered because the didn't stop banging on my knocker. I opened the door very quickly and found a short man and a small fold away step stool, his hand still knocking my knocker even though he was struggling with his balance after the knocker was tugged out of his hand. "Alright, alright blimey where's the fire, who has died. Stop banging on my door like that do I look like the sort of person who like to be knocked up on a Sunday morning?"

"Are you Mr S Spooner?" The short man said as I looked down to meet the voice.

"Yes, who are you?" I replied.

"I am Felix Featherstaff from Featherstaff, Bloxston and Bland solicitors and in response to your questions Mr Spooner, your uncle has died, in a fire and it is Saturday afternoon." He said matter of fact.

I stood there shocked for a while, before he said, "Are you OK Mr Spooner?"

I snapped out of my daze and said, "Is it really Saturday afternoon?"

He said,"Did you not hear the rest of what I said sir?"

"Yes, but i am fairly convinced you have the wrong person. You see, I am an only child and after both my parents past away that left me as the last in the family."

I eventually asked the little man for some identification and when i was satisfied i let him in and made him a coffee. When we settled down in my living room he told me a story, "Firstly Mr Spooner you are not the last in your family and your uncle has recently passed away in a fire up at the old manor. You see many years ago your father married a woman who he found out on the wedding night that his new wife was also his first cousin. Only a few days later they signed the papers to formalise an annulment. Your fathers family moved away and so did his cousins family and they never heard from each other again. Where the families had both met for the celebration was at your great uncle's house at the old manor. Your uncle died two months ago and because on examination of his will we found that you and another are his only living relatives but his last wish was unusual, Winner takes all, the loser is an ass. I don't mean to sound off but they were his words as written by him and witnessed by the Parish vicar."

I was summoned up to the manor, which was two hundred miles from here for the official reading of the entire will as apparently there was more to it than someone writing me a cheque for my half.