The Quay

Does blood freeze? Or does it just chill down into a clogging slurry like diesel does during a Mongolian Winter? Could I put myself into a hibernation state perhaps? Some sort of self-induced coma that would spare me from the teeth of the biting temperature whilst keeping my core systems ticking over until heat and help arrived? We’d studied hypothermia in Biology class I was sure, but that was umpteen years ago and my recollection was sketchy at best. Also, I used to sit near the tarantula tank, so I’d spend most sessions distracted, watching and waiting for Hairy Sue to emerge from her twig and tree-bark lair and leisurely devour her mouse lunch. But Christ it was cold! I mean seriously bloody freezing! If I didn’t end up losing several toes and/or fingers to frostbite, I’d be astonished. I was also pretty sure my balls had retracted so far into my body in their quest for warmth, it would take more than gravity to get them back out. Extra-long forceps perhaps. Or an over-sized corkscrew. So this was to be my fate it seemed - a slow death by refrigeration. For a moment, I pictured myself stranded on the Northeast Ridge of K2, hemmed in by ravenous weather, with the hopes of achieving the summit or even surviving beyond the next few hours rapidly dwindling as I gnawed forlornly on the barely defrosted leg of one of my fallen comrades. For my survival that is; I wasn’t just snacking.

The reality was actually rather less brutal. I was occupying a flat above a quayside pub, in a town called Pulton on the south coast of England, on a January Monday morning. But Winter was making its spiteful presence very much felt none the less. My only defences against the hostile elements comprised the several layers of clothing I was wearing, a duvet so thin it was practically transparent (I never realised bedding could have a negative tog rating) and the aged, wooden, warped, curtain-less sash windows that fitted within their equally aged, wooden, warped frames so shoddily that a seagull could probably fly in through the gaps with its wings fully extended. Or an eagle; possibly. I was pretty sure the only item in the room that was putting out any heat at all was my smart-phone which I had clasped in my increasingly numb hands (where’s a ‘fan heater’ app when you need one?). The pillow covering my head had been intended as an additional shield from the incoming icy breeze but like the rest of the bedding, it was damp from the exposure to the soggy sea air so wasn’t really helping to keep anything warm. So, current mood = raw, moist and particularly moany. This state of affairs was doubly upsetting as bed was usually my favourite place to be. I loved to sleep, I loved to doze and I loved to dream, because there are some grand adventures to be had in The Land of Nod. The vestiges of last night’s mental excursions were still floating around my head (maybe vestiges last longer at low temperatures) - after a lengthy but successful pursuit of her affections, I’d taken the plunge and proposed to Michelle Pfeiffer. This bold advance appeared to have been well-received initially, but she then insisted on reviewing my entire internet browsing history before committing to a decision. Ah; bugger. Still, dreams can’t always be happy clappy experiences, but that’s all part of the fantasy fun. For example, that bitter row that ensued after I accepted Carol Vordeman’s kind offer to complete my tax return for me. Once she saw my filing “system” and the poorly collated invoices and receipts she went ballistic. Additionally, I’d kept my patchy records using a spreadsheet program she wasn’t familiar with either which just soured her mood further. Very short fuse she’s got our Carol; impressively chesty though. I recall little of the actual dialogue now other than her high-volume assessment of me as an “organisationally stunted arsehat”. I took that as a negative. Difficult times. Anyway, with events having taken a dark turn with Ms. Pfeiffer, I’d been somewhat relieved when the cold and my ever-increasing need for a pee prodded me into waking.

Levering up my clammy pillow, I blinked at the room. There was daylight, albeit rather murky so the sun must have been up but didn’t appear to be trying very hard. My phone told me it was just after nine. It didn’t actually tell me; it was the time on display when I looked at it but I understand some smart-phones will speak to you if you ask them the right question. Getting that intimate with an appliance is perilous to my mind - one minute you’re asking them the time and the next, they’ve learnt your weaknesses and evolved into sentient overlords hell-bent on eradicating the human race. With extreme prejudice; and big lasers. So, no thank you my Terminator-in-waiting - we’ll maintain a non-vocal relationship and you’ll remain confined to showing me what day and time it is, what the weather’s up to and how overdrawn I am whilst providing me with a means to send words and pictures to friends and family. And maybe even make or receive the occasional telephone call if there’s no option other than actually talking to them. Also playing games and music, but that’s it. And YouTube clips.

With the morning getting into its stride, my bladder nearing critical expansion and my pressing need to break up the bed for firewood, I decided it was time I got moving. Also, I could hear activity downstairs, though distant and muffled, thanks to the depth of floor beneath me – they built things solidly back in the day. But still, I could tell someone was busy in the bar, no doubt clearing up from last night and getting ready for lunchtime opening, and I wanted to make a good impression on my first day at the helm. Then a surge of enthusiasm coursed through me, helping to warm my numb extremities, as it dawned on me that this really was day one of the brand-new adventure I was embarking on. “The Pulton Arms” was my new home, my new business and my new life. That prospect, and the realisation of the numerous acid elements I’d left behind from my previous existence lit up my fractious mood like a Christmas Tree (no flashing lights though: I hate those - so garish and untraditional). For the first time in months, I was stressing over nothing whatsoever (other than the aforementioned frostbite); instead revelling in the long-forgotten feeling of actually looking forward to the day ahead.

But then those high spirits were diluted by less ebullient thoughts as I was reminded of the loss of Aunt Maddy - the generous, fascinating, worldly lady who had gifted this new life to me.

Aunt Maddy had owned and captained “The Pulton Arms” for as many years as I could remember and she’d always had a soft spot for me. Growing up, I only saw her at occasional family gatherings, those gatherings usually being held in the pub so she could attend as she very rarely missed a shift. We hadn’t been that close in recent years as I’d moved away from Pulton for work reasons but I’d always drop into the pub to say hi when I was back in town. So, I was suitably gutted when I received the news back in December that she’d sadly passed away. I did make it back to Pulton for the funeral and the celebration of her life held at the pub afterwards. There were more friends and family present than could comfortably be accommodated in the bar, testament to how beloved she was. I know for sure that such an attendance was what she would have wanted, if only to keep the till ticking over nicely. And then a few days later, I was taken completely by surprise when I was informed that her will had been read and that she’d left the pub to me, together with a sizeable cash gift. I was the new owner: the owner! This was doubly surprising as she’d never once intimated that she was considering me for that role, and I was confident I’d never done or said anything to give her the impression that I’d be even remotely competent at it. Still, how hard could it be? Also, the pub already had a manager who took care of the day-to-day running of the business so I would be looking after the high-level strategy, the overall game plan, the big picture, re-stocking the peanuts and quality testing the pork scratchings - things of that nature I presumed. As sad as I’d been to see Aunt Maddy go, her timing could not have been better as at that point my marriage, my career; indeed pretty much my entire life was squarely on the rocks. The “Costa Concordia” would have been a less challenging salvage task. Being at a loss as to how I might extricate myself from that increasingly soul-crushing predicament, when the chance to return to my home town and reboot my existence presented itself, I simply had to take it.

So; new opportunities awaited me and I was going to grab them with both hands. Time to fling off the duvet and go for it!

...

...

...

(Still no movement)

...

...

Okay. Maybe just another ten minutes before I take on the world. Or pee the bed; whichever comes first.

In the end, the stand-off with my brimming bladder ended just a few minutes later so temperature be damned, I leapt out of bed and sprinted to the bathroom. This involved navigating the lounge en-route, and the mammoth collection of clutter therein - cue much swearing and shin bruising. But then; relief beyond measure...

It was still damn cold but somewhat warmer than first thing as the sun now seemed to be doing its best to heat things up a bit as the morning matured. Feeling (and probably smelling) pretty ratty, I decided to brave the shower - I needed to be reasonably presentable for my subjects. There was a towel hanging from a wonky rail in the bathroom but by the look of it, I’d need to don full HazMat gear before risking even going near it. It looked like a cross between the Turin Shroud and a festival-goer’s underwear on the last day of Glastonbury. So, returning to the bedroom (cue more swearing and shin bruising) I grabbed the essentials from the bag I’d brought with me last night. Then after completing the usual daily essentials, I stepped cautiously into the shower. The device itself was one of those old, over-bath, electric, fairly dribbly affairs, but it did the job and at least it dispensed some warmth. For a good few minutes, I took great pleasure in soaking that up as I scrubbed myself respectable, whilst I pondered this new chapter in The Life of Ken.

It was fabulous to be back in Pulton after a few years away and I couldn’t wait to get to know the place all over again. A lot had changed in my absence but alas not all for the better it appeared. I’d spotted a host of new developments on the quay and elsewhere that looked dreadfully out of place - modern builds designed solely to entice the cash from the holiday-home crowd, thrown up with no respect or regard for the historical aesthetic. This issue had actually been a major influence on my decision to take on the pub. Sure, my life was a train-wreck at the time and I was desperate for an out but even so, I felt I’d been offered the role of guardian of a treasured piece of Pulton’s legacy. And that was a noble and privileged calling which would have been irresponsible and mean-spirited to ignore. How else could I ensure that the pub wouldn’t fall into the hands of some undesirable who’d turn it into some seedy hangout for no-goodniks. Full of tracksuits, drugs, short-legged dogs with metal-spiked collars and recurring shouts of ‘Leave it Karen she’s not worth it!!’

Soon my pondering shifted direction to thoughts of what I was going to eat for breakfast, as my stomach was starting to make those noises that suggested extreme neglect and demanded swift reparation. Somewhat reluctantly, after a few more minutes of heated bliss, I turned off the shower and grabbed my towel. Or rather, I grabbed ‘a’ towel. Out of habit and without thinking, I reached for the one on the towel rail; the one that I would have cheerfully “laundered” with a flame-thrower when I first spotted it had I been suitably equipped. Luckily, I realised my mistake before I got too intimate with the odious object so dropped it on the floor, then turned the shower back on for a spell of feverish hand-washing before the rapidly advancing pathogens turned me feral or caused bits of me to fall off.

With the correct towel selection made and drying completed, I headed back to the bedroom. Whilst traversing the obstacle course that was the lounge once more (now with more-practised, almost ninja-like dexterity), I spied something uplifting to the left of the bedroom door - a central heating thermostat. It was one of the older style, turny wheel ones and on closer inspection, I found it was turned as far right as it could go. I cranked it all the way to the left and heard a satisfying click that told me somewhere a boiler was readying itself to fulfil my needs. With the thought that proper heat was potentially on its way, I strode into the bedroom, majorly pumped-up by my find. Alexander Fleming must have felt the same way when he discovered penicillin down the back of his sofa. Or Isaac Newton when he figured out the cause of bruised fruit. I grabbed some fresh clothes out of my bag and got dressed. With the residual warmth of my shower and a gradually heating flat, I felt human again for the first time in quite a few hours. Before heading downstairs to the bar, I took a few minutes to get better acquainted with my surroundings as I’d only had a quick tour during a previous visit. It was time to explore.

The flat didn’t appear to have been inhabited for Lord knows how long and it looked tired and dated. It was also full of all kinds of crap. Predominantly, it seemed to be the place where all bar furniture and equipment that had outlived its usefulness came to die - chairs, tables, coolers, optics and fossilised bar towels rigid enough to surf on: it was all here. There were also boxes of Christmas decorations that had been adorning the walls of the bar until just a few weeks ago, now looking rather unloved and abandoned. The decor was mostly 1960′s with an abundance of wood-chip wallpaper, heavily-patterned coving, swirled Artex and brass ceiling lights with frilly glass shades - a heady mixture indeed. The carpets were a similarly eye-stressing collection of colours and textures, going from threadbare main traffic routes to shag pile deep enough to lose a badger in. The walls were unadorned and the paper was doing its best to part company with the plaster in many places. One exception was the lounge that sported a large painting on one wall. It was awfully grand and only really suited its surroundings due to the subject matter: a seascape from the olden days. It depicted a group of sailors in a boat during a hairy storm, doing all manner of things with ropes and sails in an effort to remain afloat whilst a gaggle of their colleagues sat nearby, apparently just chatting and doing bugger all to help - idle gits. As well as the mounds of clutter, most rooms housed a selection of furniture in various states of repair with most matching the decor period-wise. The remainder was much more present-day, mostly comprising self-assembled white melamine-coated chipboard affairs that looked flimsy enough to be levelled by a hard stare.

The bedroom and the adjoining lounge occupied the front two rooms of the first floor, both with their gappy windows overlooking the quayside. The bathroom was located behind the lounge and beyond the rearward bedroom door lay a dingy hallway with stairs up to the second floor loft which I assumed was the main dumping ground that my flat was currently acting as the overspill facility for. One to explore another day I decided. There were a couple of steps down from the hallway to a landing, with stairs down to the pub and doors to another couple of rooms. I stuck my head in both: also bedrooms it appeared. No kitchen alas but I was pleased with the space I had available - all of which needed bringing into the 21st century (or at least the 20th) but this was entirely do-able given time, hard work and cash.

I took a look out of the bedroom window - there were patches of ice inside and out but these were melting pretty swiftly and although the glass panes were almost as filthy as the horror towel in the bathroom, I could make out the view. And that view was Pulton Quay in all its grey, January weather-clad glory. Some colour was provided by the several brightly-painted harbour tour boats moored up in the channel which connected the main harbour to the left to the Hull’s Bay marina to the right. Just a few hundred metres away from my viewpoint, the other side of the channel was home to some of the more industrial areas of the town. You had a choice of two lifting bridges to get there - one of which was constructed in 1927 and needed little more in terms of maintenance than a few drops of oil every year, and the other that was built in 2012 for £40m, required more upkeep than a Disneyland theme park yet still seemed to break down every ten minutes. There were a few goods yards still working that accommodated some sizeable cargo ships - I could see a number of cranes towering above mounds of aggregate, stacks of steel beams and what looked like grain silos. But what really hogged the view was the SharpCrest Marine yard. SharpCrest Marine was the town’s biggest business; that business being the manufacture of enormous luxury motor yachts for the world’s well-heeled. Right now there were several monster vessels moored in the channel with others up on ramps outside aircraft hangar sized work sheds, each of which bore a super-sized SharpCrest logo on its gigantic front doors. The boats were all gleaming white hulls and black tinted windows, collectively giving the impression of spacecraft hovering around the mother ship. SharpCrest operated several sites around Pulton but this was their HQ where the boats were finished and put in the water. Sure, the scale was kind of impressive but they had limited wow factor for me - if anything I found them rather obscene. This was for two reasons:

1. Spending all that money on what was essentially just a blaring proclamation of extensive personal wealth was a travesty with all the poverty we had in the world (it’s essentially just a dick measuring contest for the super-rich).

And,

2. I couldn’t afford one.

But SharpCrest wasn’t going to dent my mood today. The draft from the decrepit windows was strong enough to fan my hair but it was just so invigorating having the sea right outside my window. Other than long-serving sub-mariners and tsunami victims, who wouldn’t get a buzz out of that? (Passengers on a transatlantic flight too perhaps). And that was a buzz I could look forward to relishing on a daily basis, because this place was home and the perch from where I could survey and rule my empire. It was my Oval Office; the flight deck of my USS Enterprise; my Chamber of Secrets; my ....... I forgot where I was going with that. I named my perch ‘The Crow’s Nest’ there and then. Sorted.

And so to work! Feeling excited and nervous in equal measure, I headed down the stairs which creaked loudly as if protesting against being employed for the one task they had been crafted to carry out. The treads were mostly carpeted but very well-trodden and I was confident that the assortment of stains they sported would keep a full forensics team gainfully employed for some time. That thought suddenly reminded me of the horror towel. Now I’d set it free, I was worried where it might crawl off to and lie in wait for me so I went back upstairs, picked it up gingerly between thumb and forefinger and dropped it into the bathroom bin whilst setting a new personal best time for not breathing in. I resisted the urge to re-shower but I did wash my hands yet again, not keen to go down in history as the man who re-introduced The Black Death to Pulton. And so to work; again.

At the bottom of the stairwell, a scruffy white-painted door opened out into the kitchen, with a doorway immediately to the right that led into the bar area. The pub didn’t currently serve food (though this was something I meant to address; and soon) so the kitchen wasn’t terribly functional and seemed to act mainly as a staging area for vacant barrels and crates of empty bottles which took up most of the available space. Judging by the magazines lying around and the picnic table and chairs in the centre of the floor, it also seemed to serve as a break room for the bar staff. Due to the jumble, it was hard to tell what was installed in terms of actual cooking facilities. Food was on offer some years ago I remembered but judging by the shambles that was the kitchen now, it would take a hell of a lot of work to revive that operation. Lord knows the legal hoops you had to jump through these days to get the nod from the cuisine police but I was pretty sure any self-respecting Food Standards Agency officer would take one look at the current state of the place, toss a few grenades into the room and leave, never to return. Still, one step at a time - Frome wasn’t built in a day.

On entering the bar, I spied J.D. leaning on the counter poring over a newspaper. J.D. was the pub manager and it would be my name alongside his above the front door as co-licensee when the paperwork went through. He was, I guessed, late forties, maybe early fifties, with shoulder length black hair with plenty of grey threaded through it. His large, thick-framed glasses occupied the majority of his face. Teamed with his white shirt, brightly-patterned waistcoat, jeans and trainers, the overall look struck me as ’rock star physics professor off of the 80’s′, which actually looked good on him I thought. I was poised to throw out a jaunty ‘Good Morning!’ but my empty stomach beat me to it and announced my arrival with a growl that I’m sure rattled the glasses stacked nearby, causing him to look up and smile.

‘That wasn’t me, it was the dog.’ I said rather lamely whilst subconsciously putting my hand on my belly which helped to invalidate my claim massively.

‘Well, I’ll be sure to take that up with her when she gets back from her walk.’ Still smiling, he walked up to me and firmly shook my hand. ‘Officially welcome to “The Pulton Arms” boss.’

‘Thanks J.D. - I’m officially happy to be here.’

‘Sleep okay?’

‘Bit off and on - new surroundings; chillier than The Boomerang Nebula, you know.’

‘You should have put the heating on.’

‘Yes. I’ve mastered that process now.’

‘Sorry it’s a bit of a shit-hole up there. Mads always meant to sort it out but never got around to it. I was going to give it a bit of a spruce up before you arrived but programs kept coming on the telly.’

‘It’s okay - I’ll have a clear out. I wonder what the high score is on “The Antiques Roadshow”?’

He looked a little bemused by my “humour”. So was I to be honest. High score? What?

I’d only met J.D. briefly a couple of times before today so I hadn’t had opportunity to get the measure of him as yet but from my first impressions of him and the high regard with which he was clearly held by Aunt Maddy, I was confident we’d get along. But for now, perceived awkwardness dictated that I should fill any silences with some sort of dialogue. Plus, although the handshake had finished (successfully I thought, doubly pleased that I’d washed my hands about twenty times that morning), he was looking at me expectantly. Clutching at conversational straws, I gestured to his open newspaper and asked ‘So what’s today’s big news?’

Returning to the paper he glimpsed at the front page then flicked through the next few. ‘North Korea has carried out a pre-emptive nuclear strike on Guernsey and The Spice Girls have announced they’re releasing a new album.’

For a few seconds I was completely nonplussed (and by that I refer to the original definition of the word where one is so overwhelmed by events as to be unable to proffer a response or take action, not the more modern Northern U.S. definition which is interestingly almost the opposite, meaning that one is entirely unperturbed by what has just transpired. Anyway...). Then the penny dropped. ‘Christ that’s bloody horrific news!! The Guernsey situation’s not that great either.’

He smirked and nodded in a ‘This guy might be okay.’ kind of way and I felt I’d passed a test of some sort. I was keen to keep the momentum going. ‘So; anything need doing around here?’

‘No we’re all set: opening in twenty.’

Looking around the room, it did indeed appear very “set”. J.D. had a very relaxed way about him but was clearly all over the job in hand, and didn’t miss a trick according to Aunt Maddy. The bar was clean, tidy and well-stocked. He must have been busy earlier, as last night we had a full house courtesy of an Elvis tribute act. To be honest, I think such shows are painfully naff but they are surprisingly popular. J.D. had just called last orders as I walked in the door and judging by the mound of glasses awaiting washing, it was clear it had been a lively shift. On my arrival, he had simply said ‘Hi Ken’, then taken my bag and dropped it out back then returned and poured me a large whiskey without me asking. It was a good call after several frustrating hours travel to get there. Bloody trains. Why do they never run properly? “Elvis” had just finished packing up his act and he swaggered up and stood next to me at the bar then ordered a beer. At least I think he did - I couldn’t quite make out what he said but J.D. seemed to understand and served one up. With the alcohol fast soothing my rather frazzled brain, and being keen to embrace my new community, I thought I’d engage the star of the evening.

‘So how was your gig tonight? Plenty of bums on seats it looks like?’

Still in costume, with the fake rhinestones glinting on his white jumpsuit and the bar lamps reflecting off his shades, he turned and uttered something that sounded like ‘Wassssssurrrllllleven’, then turned back to his drink. It was half-growled and half-slurred - maybe he was staying in character; or perhaps suffering a minor stroke. I wasn’t sure how to follow that up. It was like when someone tells you their name and you don’t catch it so you ask them to repeat it a couple more times but you still don’t get it so you give up because international laws of etiquette neither allow you a fourth attempt nor permit you to ask if they could write it down for you. However, I pressed on.

‘So what’s your favourite Elvis song?’

He took a sip of beer then (I think) answered with ‘Oliver’s Army.’ which went some way to confirming my initial medical diagnosis.

By that point, my irksome day was rapidly catching up with me so I simply responded with a lame ‘Cool! Me too.’ Catching J.D.’s eye, I pointed upwards to indicate it was bed time for me. He grabbed my bag then led me upstairs to The Crow’s Nest.

But here we were: a new day, ready for business, and I couldn’t have been more delighted as I surveyed my new domain. The pub had always felt really welcoming to me every time I’d visited. The bar area wasn’t huge but it had personality. As soon as you walked through the front door (front and centre of the building that led directly from the quayside) you were presented with the bar a few paces away that ran most of the length of the back wall, and a grand selection of mismatched chairs and tables to settle into. These sat rockily on a well-worn stone slabbed floor, with the odd random metre or two sporting some tired carpet that was a mere hair’s breadth from being declared “too sticky”. The decor was predominantly wood which I loved - panelled ceiling and walls with brick pillars here and there with many boaty pictures and old black and whites of the town adorning most surfaces. These mingled with umpteen maritime artefacts including a ship’s wheel and numerous framed examples of knots - staples for any pub with even the loosest nautical ties. The ceiling was low, giving the room an intimate and cosy feel. (And it was warm! I realised I was now completely defrosted.) It was well-lit though so never dingy and although it had an historic theme, it neither looked nor felt dated as did much of the rest of the building. The one nod to the modern age was the ubiquitous flat-screen television that hung in the corner at the left-most end of the bar. I wasn’t a fan of tellies in pubs; conversation killers that they are. Also, now I was a proprietor, I was doubly against the idea as they took customers’ attention away from drinking and spending their money. That said, I’d never seen this particular set turned on during any visit that I could remember, so maybe it was saved solely for special events. Or just broken perhaps. But overall, the place looked and felt like a pub. A real pub. My pub.

Then I was rudely distracted from my thoughts as my stomach roared with sufficient ferocity to put the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion out of a job.

‘Fuckin’ ‘ell! Somebody skipped breakfast!’ came a voice from the kitchen door behind me.

I turned to see Janine, one of our bar staff, who covered as many shifts as her college schedule allowed. And at her feet, padding towards me was Halo - J.D.’s pug, who’d obviously just been treated to “walkies”. I got a cocked head curious look, a thorough sniff of my trainers then a loud snort (all from Halo not Janine) then off she trotted to scavenge for dropped bar snacks (again; Halo not Janine). Halo was a fixture most days it seemed and I was fine with that. From what I’d seen she was a low maintenance hound, spending the shift dozing in her basket under the bar or slowly criss-crossing the room like one of those robotic vacuum cleaners, consuming anything edible that found its way onto the floor. She’d bump into a punter and wag her tail, get a pat and a stroke then head off to continue the search. Goodness she would be in for a treat when we started serving food again (and possibly morbid obesity). Janine was studying for a Level 3 Diploma in Hairdressing - I knew this as it stuck with me from a previous conversation due to the potential it offered for free haircuts. Originally from Birmingham, Janine had been down South long enough to lose most of her accent but would occasionally come out with something so Brummie that anyone within earshot felt duty-bound to mimic her - something she suffered with good grace. I had a lot of time for Janine - she was a good-looking girl, endlessly flirty with a wicked sense of humour and from what I’d seen, she was a good worker too. She had quite a mouth on her but kept it (mostly) appropriately censored when around the customers. It didn’t hurt that she brought other twenty-something college mates into the pub from time to time too.

‘Morning Janine - how you doing?’

‘Better than you it sounds like - come on; let’s fire up Bernie.’ With that she turned and walked into the kitchen. I turned to J.D. enquiringly but his nose was back in his paper so I trailed in her wake.

She went over to the tired-looking worktop and flicked a grimy switch on a wall socket. ‘This is Bernie.’ she said, gesturing towards a sandwich toaster that on closer inspection appeared to have last been cleaned around the time that disco was ruling the music charts. It looked like it was only held together by the web of strings of once molten cheese that it had accumulated over its many years of service. I really wasn’t keen to put Bernie through his (or her) paces but Janine was presenting the machine with the same kind of pride and reverence with which the scientists at CERN must regard the Large Hadron Collider. So I dug deep into my fake enthusiasm reserves and managed a ‘Yum!’

‘Fancy a cuppa?’ she offered.

‘I could murder one, thanks.’

She flicked the kettle on and explored a couple of the various caddys on the worktop, with disappointing results it appeared.

‘Why the fuck am I the only one that keeps these topped up? Lazy sods. Is Earl Grey okay?’

I just managed to stop myself from saying ‘No I’m afraid he’s dead; didn’t you hear?’ My testing of the comedy water had garnered mixed results so far this morning so I thought it best not to get over-ambitious.

‘Lovely, thanks.’