press conference. Desi was horrified — and consumed with curiosity. She scrambled up and ran back into the library. The conference was to finish in fifteen minutes. If she left now, she might make it ahead of them and find somewhere to hide.
Mrs Munde was seeking compensation. She had just lost her arm in the Hallelujah Hamburger machine and she didn't like it. It had all happened very suddenly. One minute she was funnelling away singing a little song about love and the lack of it, and the next — whoosh, the thing had scooped her up and made six neat quarterpounders out of her left arm. Mrs Munde was aghast. She had never lost an arm before, and she couldn't be expected to cope with it. On top of the shock, it was beginning to hurt. She rushed up to the big house and met Ham coming out of the press conference. He looked tense.
'How much is an arm worth?' she demanded.
'Mrs Munde, I have no time for philosophy right now,' he said politely, edging past her.
This was not the right response and Mrs Munde started to cry, pointing at the same time to her stump.
'Oh my God,' breathed Ham. 'Did you do that in the machine?'
Mrs Munde nodded and cried all the more. Really, she was fed up of being stoic; what she wanted now was sympathy. Ham glanced at his watch.
'Suppose I give you a new job. Suppose I make you Editorial Advisor to one of my newspapers? Suppose I give you a lump sum tax free? Well? If you agree, we'll say no more about it.'
Mrs Munde fainted and was carried inside by two orderlies. When she came round it was almost night. Her stump had been bandaged and there was a fat envelope by her bed. She tore it open with her teeth. Inside was a set of instructions about her new job: where she should go, what she would have to do. Then there was a thick wodge of notes and a piece of paper for her to sign saying that the accident had nothing to do with any machines belonging to the House of Trust and Fortitude Group. She couldn't sign it because she had been left-handed, but she was so excited about her new role in life that she decided to forget the little incident and put it down to an act of God.
And so it was that the next day Mrs Munde packed up her little spotty handkerchief and set out for the offices of NAFF (No Artificial or Frozen Food). This newspaper looked after the interests of the great Unpronounceable as far as the daily reading public were concerned. Noah felt it important to have a stronghold in the media.
As Mrs Munde arrived at the offices they were laying out the next day's issue. On the front cover was a picture of a husband and wife standing proudly over their dismantled freezer: 'We did use to row,' said the husband, 'and always at mealtimes, but until we heard about YAHWEH we never realised it was because of the frozen food we were eating.' The wife said that since she had given up her part-time job to concentrate on cooking properly for herself and her husband, she'd felt happier and more fulfilled. «Course I miss the girls at work, but you have to make sacrifices, don't you?'
Beneath the editorial was a report by NAFF scientist Pierre Puree detailing beyond doubt the discovery that the use of frozen foods led to disruption in the marital home. 'We're all tempted by the odd packet of petits pois, but how quickly that becomes ready-meals and oven chips, how quickly that leads to the wife being out somewhere, the children neglected and rebellious, and the husband forced to fend for himself.' NAFF president Lady Olivia Masticater, at the time on holiday in Andorra, had sent back a telegrammed comment on the masterly research of Pierre Puree. She said, 'There is now every reason to believe that frozen food has contributed to the rise of feminism, premarital sex and premature hair loss.'
Page two carried a feature entitled The Teenagers Who Are Saying No', a salutary overview on young people who were coming to terms with their cravings for frozen food, particularly the sticky sweet variety.
Mrs Munde was seeking compensation. She had just lost her arm in the Hallelujah Hamburger machine and she didn't like it. It had all happened very suddenly. One minute she was funnelling away singing a little song about love and the lack of it, and the next — whoosh, the thing had scooped her up and made six neat quarterpounders out of her left arm. Mrs Munde was aghast. She had never lost an arm before, and she couldn't be expected to cope with it. On top of the shock, it was beginning to hurt. She rushed up to the big house and met Ham coming out of the press conference. He looked tense.
'How much is an arm worth?' she demanded.
'Mrs Munde, I have no time for philosophy right now,' he said politely, edging past her.
This was not the right response and Mrs Munde started to cry, pointing at the same time to her stump.
'Oh my God,' breathed Ham. 'Did you do that in the machine?'
Mrs Munde nodded and cried all the more. Really, she was fed up of being stoic; what she wanted now was sympathy. Ham glanced at his watch.
'Suppose I give you a new job. Suppose I make you Editorial Advisor to one of my newspapers? Suppose I give you a lump sum tax free? Well? If you agree, we'll say no more about it.'
Mrs Munde fainted and was carried inside by two orderlies. When she came round it was almost night. Her stump had been bandaged and there was a fat envelope by her bed. She tore it open with her teeth. Inside was a set of instructions about her new job: where she should go, what she would have to do. Then there was a thick wodge of notes and a piece of paper for her to sign saying that the accident had nothing to do with any machines belonging to the House of Trust and Fortitude Group. She couldn't sign it because she had been left-handed, but she was so excited about her new role in life that she decided to forget the little incident and put it down to an act of God.
And so it was that the next day Mrs Munde packed up her little spotty handkerchief and set out for the offices of NAFF (No Artificial or Frozen Food). This newspaper looked after the interests of the great Unpronounceable as far as the daily reading public were concerned. Noah felt it important to have a stronghold in the media.
As Mrs Munde arrived at the offices they were laying out the next day's issue. On the front cover was a picture of a husband and wife standing proudly over their dismantled freezer: 'We did use to row,' said the husband, 'and always at mealtimes, but until we heard about YAHWEH we never realised it was because of the frozen food we were eating.' The wife said that since she had given up her part-time job to concentrate on cooking properly for herself and her husband, she'd felt happier and more fulfilled. «Course I miss the girls at work, but you have to make sacrifices, don't you?'
Beneath the editorial was a report by NAFF scientist Pierre Puree detailing beyond doubt the discovery that the use of frozen foods led to disruption in the marital home. 'We're all tempted by the odd packet of petits pois, but how quickly that becomes ready-meals and oven chips, how quickly that leads to the wife being out somewhere, the children neglected and rebellious, and the husband forced to fend for himself.' NAFF president Lady Olivia Masticater, at the time on holiday in Andorra, had sent back a telegrammed comment on the masterly research of Pierre Puree. She said, 'There is now every reason to believe that frozen food has contributed to the rise of feminism, premarital sex and premature hair loss.'
Page two carried a feature entitled The Teenagers Who Are Saying No', a salutary overview on young people who were coming to terms with their cravings for frozen food, particularly the sticky sweet variety.
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