Rumour has it that Rachel Reeves is limbering up for November with a Budget that will make the taxman’s quill squeak like a stuck pig. Property, pensions, profits, pasties — all grist to the Exchequer’s mill.
The Treasury is leaving no stone unturned, no pocket unpicked, no cupboard unopened. The only thing, one suspects, that remains miraculously safe from her fiscal scythe is Larry the Cat’s supper.
Cat food, so far, has escaped. But give it time. If Reeves wakes up one morning and thinks Felix is a luxury good, then Larry may be forced to reacquaint himself with the vermin of Whitehall.
Which would be, let’s face it, the first proper day’s work he’s done in a decade.
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