With an
anxious sigh, Polly Wiggle-Waggle scanned her family’s account books, looking
for good news that simply was not there.
Poor Polly was running out of ideas.
Try as she might to persuade them otherwise, her parents refused to
admit that the family was in a financial crisis. “The Wiggle-Waggles,” her father had intoned, after Polly waved the account books under his nose, “do not have
financial crises!”
If only
that were true. Yes, Lord and Lady
Wiggle-Waggle, Polly’s parents, still lived in the great manor that had been
the family seat for the last 37 generations. And yes, they still gave the most
glamorous garden parties in the county.
But with the family’s income drying up, and her parents’ complete
inability to grasp reality, Polly was at her wits’ end for ways to raise funds
for the summer fete her mother insisted on hosting.
In
desperation Polly looked around the living room, searching for an old vase or
painting her parents wouldn’t miss if she pawned it off a London antiques shop. It was, she knew, a hopeless
cause. Thanks to such raids in the past
Polly’s parents were beginning to notice that the manor seemed a bit emptier
than usual, even though it was still crammed full of family heirlooms.
And of course Polly could forget about suggesting to her father that he get a job. Lord Wiggle-Waggle’s face had gone beet red the last time she’d dared to raise the subject. “The Wiggle-Waggles,” he’d boomed, “do not have jobs!” Nor had Lady Wiggle-Waggle been of much help when Polly had approached her after dinner yesterday. “Darling,” she’d sniffed to Polly, “how many times do I have to tell you? It’s vulgar for a lady to discuss matters of finance!”
And of course Polly could forget about suggesting to her father that he get a job. Lord Wiggle-Waggle’s face had gone beet red the last time she’d dared to raise the subject. “The Wiggle-Waggles,” he’d boomed, “do not have jobs!” Nor had Lady Wiggle-Waggle been of much help when Polly had approached her after dinner yesterday. “Darling,” she’d sniffed to Polly, “how many times do I have to tell you? It’s vulgar for a lady to discuss matters of finance!”
Polly just
did not know what to do. With her
brother Alfred even more clueless than her parents—he was incapable of any
conversation not concerning lawn tennis or his London gentleman’s club—Polly
felt utterly alone. If only she could
think of a way to make some money…
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