By Sandshoe

Good afternoon, my name is Louise.  I am a member of the Poor Club.

The members of the Poor Club are the dregs of society. [Rabble rousing Cheers]  I first became a member [Rabble rousing Cheers] when I belonged to the Rich Club. [Rabble rousing Boos].  I heard about the Poor Club [Rabble rousing Cheers] at a dinner at the Rich Club [Rabble rousing Boos] and the next evening when I got home from work [Boo] I wrote to the Secretary of the Poor Club [Cheer] to get her to send me the form I just knew I would have to fill in to apply to become a member (Yeaaaah! Clap).

Thank you all for the welcome. Reserve your judgement for when I tell my story. The Secretary found my telephone number in the telephone directory to verify I exist. She said she would ring me because that is less costly than replying by snail mail (or by a fancy French letter, she joked) although she said straight off I did not qualify to be a member of any Poor Club. She said the gilt edged linen finish stationery I wrote my letter to her on with the matching envelope, not to mention the classic Indian Ink and a fountain pen flourish at the finish was fishy. And she wanted to know how could I afford postage.  I didn’t like the idea of being rejected and I lied.  I said the stationery and the pen was a box set I won (I ignored the query about postage).  She asked where and I said it was a door Prize at my Church and she hung up on me.  I even wondered if she was a Christian, which was silly of me.  I wrote another letter using a dozen different biros as if they were all old ones that kept running out.  I didn’t even put a postage stamp on the envelope when I sent this second letter.

She was really nice when she rang back. And she even said she found a trace of butter on the butter wrap I used for stationery.  I could be a member.  It was that easy.  That’s how I found out lying can get you anywhere (but best to be blameless and tell the truth when you think you can get away with it, really!)   When I told her because I thought she should know that I belonged to the Rich Club, she said she didn’t believe me.  Why would I apply to join the Poor Club if I belonged to the Rich Club.

That’s a good question, Many ask it. Friends, neighbours, family as well. Why would I apply to join the Poor Club if I was a fully paid-up member of the Rich Club: a Diamond Status Pass Card holder at that.

It’s simple. I felt deprived. When I heard about the Poor Club and I only belonged to the Rich Club, it was like I was missing out on something more important than anything.  I got to thinking. In the Rich Club it’s money, money, money. If belonging to the Poor Club means no money, no money and more no money, I knew I needed to be there, find out what it is like.  If those people are still alive, I wondered, I wanted to know how they do it on nothing.  If I had nothing, I would kill myself.

My grandmother said, the poor have got spirit. My grandfather said Grandmother didn’t know squat. Faith, my accountant said, the poor have got faith that one day they will learn how to balance the books. The building manager said it depends where they live. If they have a roof over their heads, it doesn’t matter where they live, and three square meals a day, her husband thought. And so it went on. I had to find out for myself the answer to something obviously nobody knew for sure or could agree on. How can the poor get by. How do they live when others in the same situation kill themselves.  This is the enquiry that means I stand here before you now, making a petition, now, of the Poor Club. It’s a triumph. The poor live on thin air and hope. [Huzzah. Bravo.] Inclined deprived of chance to the ingenuity of genius.[Loud Cheers.]. I cannot do other than consider the well-to-do Beauclerk, that fashionable wit, who despatching a letter to the Earl of Charlemont claimed of Samuel Johnson ‘confined’ to the Isle of Sky (sic) he was reckoned ‘obliged to swim over to the mainland taking hold of a cow’s tail’.