Pie in the Sky

I just took an 'all expenses paid' trip to Calcutta. By this, I mean I paid all the expenses myself. Now I'm just a student and not exactly working, so this little holiday hit me hard. My wallet looks a bit anorexic, that little lump under my mattress has long since disappeared and the sea(sick) green porcelain jar that my Aunt Mabel gifted me, hidden behind my wardrobe, doesn't clink anymore when I move it.
In other words, like Lucy Locket, I'm stony broke.

This normally wouldn't be anything to have kittens over because my parents being the nice considerate people they are, feed me, clothe me, and pay for my internet and phone bills. But I could hardly ask them to buy their own 22nd wedding anniversary gift now, could I?
Especially since that was exactly what my baby sister would be doing. The Minx in all her demonic innocence can get away with it. I can't.

The Minx: Mom, can I have [insert adorable amount] to buy you an [insert adorable gift] for your anniversary, please? [insert adorable expression]
The [duped] Mother: Oh aren't you a thoughtful little darling? Of course you can, angel.

I have just two options. Go through the pockets of everybody's clothes in the house or (shudder) work for it.
After a couple of hours though, I have to accept defeat. I think it really unfair that my family chooses to be so meticulous over things like emptying their pockets, but so lackadaisical when it comes to emptying the trash bins. The sofa cushions have nothing to offer either.

I suppose I could work for it. Being a writer is nothing like being a pilot, but with the recession reigning in all it's glory....
I thought of positioning myself on a busy city pavement in the hope that I would be able to save an eccentric old spinster from being jostled off and run over- but those hopes of mine refused to roll out of bed, citing a justified fear of heights. My eccentric old spinster would probably only remember me in her Will with her family heirlooms in mind five years into the future one stormy night, and that would hardly help me with my parents anniversary, which is a week away.

I can imagine it perfectly. The lightning bolts slice through the air, outstripping their thunderbolt cousins easily, laughing at their futile efforts to keep up. The great trees struggle valiantly against vicious winds that demand utter submission threatening to uproot them as they do lesser foliage. The rain comes down in torrents, driving the moon back into the clouds and I sit by the fireside with a steaming hot mug of cocoa writing letters.
Somebody beats a frantic tattoo at the door. It is mysteriously cut off. I run to aforementioned structure and open it on instinct, stepping aside immediately to avoid being hit by the body that falls to the floor. It is a man named Boris, stabbed in the back. I drag him to my couch. He tells me that the old lady, a Russian countess in exile, has remembered me in her Will. He tells me of the cursed ruby necklace, his breath growing shallower with each moment that passes. He warns me of danger, but a racking cough makes the words hard to decipher. A piece of paper covered in blood slips out from his pocket and flutters to the floor. And in my living room, dies Boris of the Bloody Handprint Brotherhood.

But that would be a story for another post, another day. Back to my parents anniversary. I forgot my mother's birthday last year and the memory of being passed over when it came to dessert -for a week- is one that is still fresh. So you can see why this is so important. It's the sort of torture that can only be lived through once. Kittens? Heck, I'm having tiger cubs. It's going to be apple-pie next week.
I think I'll bake them a cake. I love baking and they love cake. It would make everybody happy and suit my wallet perfectly.
Oh glorioski. There's pie in my sky. And cake, too.