by Mark Jones

Ebenezer Stooge shuffled along Albert Street on his way from his office to his impressive home overlooking the Stray.

He pulled his threadbare coat tight to keep out the cold air of the December evening. It was Christmas Eve and the snow was beginning to fall. At least he thought it was snow that had just landed on his sleeve! He looked again and muttered 'bloody pigeons, the council ought to do something about them'.

Still, his spirits were high. It had been a good year. His new business retraining retired hunting dogs to chase hedge fund managers was going down a treat. 'I am going to be rich, rich, RICH', he smiled.

He peered through the windows of the bars along Albert Street at the smiling faces enjoying a Christmas drink. 'Fools', he thought. 'I have not got time for all that frivolity. I am too busy making money. Anyway, my Christmas will be just fine so long as I get that Harrogate Railway Athletic end of season DVD I am asking for'.

As he crossed the road and continued along North Park Road, his eye was caught by the bright colours of the reflection of the Christmas lights in the windows of number 6. Stooge felt a pang of guilt as he saw that it was the office of Barber Titleys solicitors. He had been meaning to call in. Still, no need to now he thought; he was far too busy with the new business, was rich anyway and he did not need a will because he wanted everything to go to Mrs Stooge. As for planning for anything else, he would be working in the business until the day he dropped, so why bother? He shuffled on towards his warm bed and the quiet Christmas he had planned.

Stooge awoke with a start. He looked at the bright green figures on his clock radio. It was 1 am. He became aware that he was not alone.

'I am the ghost of past disappointments and horrors still to come', said a deep voice.

'Oh my God!' stuttered Stooge, 'are you Leeds United?'

'Not quite', replied the voice. 'Come with me'.

Stooge felt that he was floating off his bed and moments later he found himself looking down into an office in which three men were sitting around a table laughing heartily. He saw from the words on the window that this was the Harrogate office of H M Revenue & Customs and he realised that although they could not see him he could hear everything the men were saying.

'The old fool'. He's forgotten to use his annual IHT allowance yet again'.

'And he hasn't even thought about the exemption for regular gifts out of excess income'.

'And his daughter married this year. Doesn't he realise that he could have saved hundreds of pounds in tax by making gifts connected with the marriage!’

The three men burst out laughing again. 'HMRC can afford a fantastic Christmas party this year thanks to Mr Stooge!'

Stooge closed his eyes in horror.

When he opened them again he found himself back in his bed. 'Hmmmmmn', he muttered. 'I knew that I shouldn't have had the extra shot of espresso at Starbucks yesterday. It's giving me the weirdest dreams'. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

He was awoken again by a bright light. He looked at the clock and saw that it was 2 am. Looking towards the light he saw a man with a wide grinning face and horrible, bright inappropriate clothes.

'Errrrrm, Timmy Mallet?' asked Stooge.

'Fraid not', replied the ghost and took Stooge's hand.

Once again Stooge found himself floating through the air, this time looking down into a corridor at Harrogate District Hospital. He saw from a calendar on the wall that it was December 2014. To Stooge's surprise, his wife came around the corner, deep in conversation with a doctor.

'I know it's a shock', the doctor was saying, 'but I am afraid there is no doubt at all. Poor Mr Stooge no longer has mental capacity. He is totally incapable of dealing with his own affairs. To be honest, this is quite common. You would be surprised how many people go mad after years of trying to work out why Ripon hasn't got a railway station'.

He started to shake his head and continued. 'It's just such a shame that Mr Stooge did not plan ahead and sign a Lasting Power of Attorney. Things would have been so easy now if he had. As it is, you will have to apply to the Court of Protection for the appointment of a Deputy which could take ages and with the Court fees, medical fees, legal fees and everything else you will probably be looking at least a couple of thousand of pounds. And then, of course, there will be the annual fees from this point onwards. Much of this delay and expense could so easily have been avoided'.

Stooge closed his eyes and started to weep.

When he awoke again he saw that it was 3 am. Again, there was a presence in his room. 'I know, I know', he growled. 'You're a ghost. Where to this time?'.

Stooge found himself looking down into the offices of Barber Titleys. He saw his wife at a table talking to a solicitor. She was dressed in black and was crying.

'Hmmmn, well that is my wife', he thought, 'so where am I?'. He noticed the death certificate on the desk and read the words 'Ebenezer Stooge. Date of death 24 December 2024'.
'Ah', he thought.
'But Ebenezer always said I'd get everything', sobbed Mrs Stooge.
'I am afraid it is not quite that straightforward', replied the solicitor. 'Because Mr Stooge did not leave a will, as his surviving spouse you only get the first £125,000 and a life interest in half of the balance. The remainder goes to other beneficiaries. Worse still, he has landed you with quite a tax bill. Of his £2 million estate, about £500,000 is going to go to the tax man'.
'Noooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!' screamed Stooge.
When he awoke, Stooge saw that it was light. He went to the window and heard church bells drifting across the snow covered Stray.
'My God!' he exclaimed, 'there's still time! I know just what I've got to do, I need to get straight down to Barber Titleys and sort out my affairs properly!'

Dressing quickly, he rushed downstairs, passing a bemused Mrs Stooge as he raced out of the door.
'Merry Christmas Ebenezer', his wife called after him.
'No time for that', he called back. 'I am off to the solicitors to sort out my affairs'.
'Don't be daft', Mrs Stooge replied, 'I know their client care is fantastic, but even Barber Titleys don't open on Christmas Day!'

Find out how Ebenezer Stooge sorted out his affairs by contacting Mark Jones at Barber Titleys solicitors.