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No answer.
‘Ah. So a henhouse it is, then.’
Mr Ambrose raised his gaze from the papers he had been studying. ‘They do not live in a henhouse, Mr Linton. They live in…’ A muscle in his cheek twitched. It was over and done with in a fraction of a second, but I saw it all right. Oh yes, I did. ‘…in a manor in the country.’
I casually leant closer, and enquired, ‘In which part of Scotland?’
A moment of silence.
A long one.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘You know perfectly well that they do not live in Scotland! For the last time, I am not Scottish, and neither are they, and the same applies to my grandparents and their parents before them.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s what you say. I still doubt it’s physically possible for anyone to be as stingy as you are if they don’t have at least a drop of Scottish blood running through their veins.’
‘I resent that implication, Mr Linton.’
‘Indeed, Sir?’
‘It is perfectly possible for an Englishman to be as frugal, prudent and economical as any Scotsman.’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
With a cool look, he returned to studying his papers. I, for my part pulled out a book I had acquired as a little light reading for the journey: The Stingy Scotsman - One-thousand Hilarious Jokes. It really was hilarious reading, particularly if, like me, you had a pencil with you, and busied yourself replacing the words ‘a Scotsman’ with ‘Rikkard Ambrose’.
This led to some quite interesting results…
What is Rikkard Ambrose’s recipe for tomato soup? Heat a quarter gallon of water, and then fill it into red bowls.
Or how about this
one:
Rikkard Ambrose accompanies a friend to the doctor. The doctor tells him, ‘Your friend needs fresh sea air to get well again.’ Mr Ambrose is very concerned, so the very next day, he gifts his friend with a free treatment: a full-time, unpaid job in his fishmonger business.
Another one on the great value of a wonderful friendship:
Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s friend is dying. Rikkard Ambrose kneels beside his bed and gently takes his hand. ‘Anything I can do for you? Any last requests?’ His friend points towards the table next to the bed, where a meal is prepared. ‘J-just one bite of that cake….please…’ Mr Ambrose shakes his head, sternly. ‘Now, really! You know very well that’s for the funeral reception. I can’t waste money buying another one.’
Or, a sweet, romantic one:
Why would Rikkard Ambrose love to marry on February 29? Because then he’d only have to pay for an anniversary gift every four years.
And my current favourite:
At an auction, a wealthy lord announces that he has lost his wallet containing £10,000 and will give a reward of £100 to the person who finds it. From the back of the crowd, Mr Rikkard Ambrose calls, ‘I bid a hundred and ten!’
‘Something funny, Mr Linton?’
Glancing up, I saw Mr Ambrose was staring at me - and only then did I realise I had been giggling.
‘Um…no, Sir. Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Indeed?’
