Deceangli
Today we’re with Sally Preston, a psychic with a drink problem who has been helping Her Majesty’s Government set economic policy by conversing with the ghost of Margaret Thatcher.
Sally gives me an appraising look. 'You’ve lost somebody close to you. Is the letter H significant?'
'No', I say, then immediately feel guilty as she seems so vulnerable, swigging away from her bottle of Jacob’s Creek chardonnay. 'Oh, I used to have a hat'.
'That’ll be it', she tells me, before slumping back into her chair, seemingly half asleep.
'Are you here about the economy?'
'Yes', I lie. Sometimes an investigative journalist has to push the boundaries.
Sally takes another drink from her bottle and her eyelids flutter manically. 'Margaret is in the room. She’s saying something about National Insurance'.
'Does she want it to go up? Down?'
'Down!' she says, suddenly leaning forward and fixing me with a terrifying glare. 'And fracking. Ronald has told her it’s for the best. Frack the whole country'.
'Is Reagan there too?' I ask.
'Of course. They’re an item now'.
'What about interest rates?'
'That’s enough for today. I’m tired'. Sally hauls herself upright and scans around for the door. I’m tempted to ask about ghost sex but force myself to stick with economics.
'We need to know. Should they go up? How do we avoid recession?'
Sally is already halfway to the door, staggering a little. 'Privatise something. The NHS. Privatise the NHS. Oh, and she says the Oxford comma is an abomination. Get rid of it'.
And she’s gone. Britain’s leading economic adviser has left the room leaving only a faint aroma of chardonnay and piss, and I realise what the H was all about. Horseshit.
