Already bilious and impatient by nature, Mrs Kray optimised her ill humour and indigestion through an indelicate balance of blood sausage and bloody marys. Never happier than when she was miserable, she huffed and grunted a path through the museum, vexating oaths at both children and the elderly.
At the behest of her boss she had been loitering around the Elgin Marbles for the past few months, vainly attempting to calculate how many wheelbarrows she would need to relocate said artefacts but losing count at each spicy belch or whenever she ran out of fingers.
Keeping a watchful eye was her self-appointed superior – Mrs Patrician – a grim-faced doom-bringer with a yen for shooting animals outside kindergartens and basking in the infants’ trauma. By way of encouragement, she chivvied her servant with steel-capped kicks up the backside and the odd swat of birch when less inclined to exert herself.
On behalf of the double-act, Mrs Patrician impolitely declined to join our crew, suggesting that while terra firma remained home to so much loot in need of repatriation, the prospect of sharing cramped, briny and dank quarters with several dozen stinking brigands, though exceedingly appealing on paper, simply made no business sense.
Marksma’am
Mrs Patrician
Likes: Jimmy Nail
Dislikes: Jimmy Carter
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