what?’
‘Well, we’ve not had the meeting yet – going to see them next Wednesday – but indications are that it should be a tidy sum. It will sort out Jamie’s financial problems for a while, but he definitely won’t be a millionaire.’
‘What about this neck of the woods? Any chance of them prospecting around here? I could do with a bit of a windfall myself,’ Cyril adds.
‘There are certainly possibilities,’ I answer. ‘There was a feature on the BBC news back in February, in which the chief executive of the company with shale gas test drilling rights for Cheshire said he can't wait to drill in Wayne Rooney's backyard.’
‘Wow!’ Cyril exclaims. ‘I wouldn’t mind some of that! What do you think I should do?’
‘Well, I could do a bit of research if you like. I’m not sure if it stretches as far as here or when licences would be granted, but I’ll see what I can find out and let you know before I would have to start charging, if you know what I mean.’
‘Oh! Yes, of course. Wasn’t trying to be cheeky or anything, and thanks, it would be nice to know.’ With that he strides off towards the farmhouse.
Going back inside, I try to remember whether Bill Lambert was to call me back before the weekend, at the weekend or after the weekend, Maybe the head-butt did more damage than I realised. I definitely won’t bother with golf today. I hate weekend competitions anyway: you often get young business types who are too busy on weekdays and think they know all the rules, and spout constantly about etiquette. I mean, if you lose a ball – which I often do – and have to take a drop with a new ball, does it matter if it moves an inch too far when you’ve still got three hundred yards to play? I chicken out and pick up the phone to let them know… etiquette, you see.
I’m doodling and realise I’ve drawn a matchstick man being beaten. It must be Barry Milton, along with an influence from L. S. Lowry, the artist famous for painting matchstick men. Lambert often works at the weekend, so I make the call. He is in.
‘Thought you were in the competition today,’ he answers by way of greeting.
‘Likewise,’ I reply, and relate the events of the evening before and the reasons for crying off the competition.
‘Very interesting,’ he comments. ‘Probably wise with a blow to the head. Could be mild concussion.’
‘Yeah, I felt fine first thing, but I am bit groggy now. The run-in last night with Barry Milton aggravated my back as well.’
‘Not your day, really, was it?’ Lambert commiserated.
‘No, it was not,’ I agree. ‘I thought it was worth seeing if you were in. Did you find out any more about this Barry Milton?’
‘Indeed I did,’ he confirms. ‘And after what you’ve just told me, methinks he won’t be showing up for his day job. How bad are you? Any chance of you getting into town? Better not to drive, though; my inside man in the fracking protester group is coming in later, so it might be useful to swap information.’
‘Count me in,’ I answer. ‘What time?’
‘After lunch. Say 2:30?’
‘OK, see you later.’
Despite Bill’s warning, I feel I’m OK to drive as far as Altrincham, where I can take the metro all the way to Greater Manchester Police HQ at Newton Heath. I back out the Saab, and foregoing the M6 motorway take a slower-paced relaxing route through the lanes to Altrincham.
I walk gingerly to the station, trying not to jar my back, picking up The Times newspaper from the kiosk on the way. I board the tram and am quickly immersed in headline stories of the day: political crises in the Middle East, Ukrainian separatism, and the rest. Halfway through the crossword, I’m at the St Peter’s square metro interchange. A change of tram onto the Rochdale line and I’m at Central Park, the nearest metro station for GMP HQ. There are a number of other passengers who alighted at this stop and are going in the same direction. I am the slowest walker, and
‘Well, we’ve not had the meeting yet – going to see them next Wednesday – but indications are that it should be a tidy sum. It will sort out Jamie’s financial problems for a while, but he definitely won’t be a millionaire.’
‘What about this neck of the woods? Any chance of them prospecting around here? I could do with a bit of a windfall myself,’ Cyril adds.
‘There are certainly possibilities,’ I answer. ‘There was a feature on the BBC news back in February, in which the chief executive of the company with shale gas test drilling rights for Cheshire said he can't wait to drill in Wayne Rooney's backyard.’
‘Wow!’ Cyril exclaims. ‘I wouldn’t mind some of that! What do you think I should do?’
‘Well, I could do a bit of research if you like. I’m not sure if it stretches as far as here or when licences would be granted, but I’ll see what I can find out and let you know before I would have to start charging, if you know what I mean.’
‘Oh! Yes, of course. Wasn’t trying to be cheeky or anything, and thanks, it would be nice to know.’ With that he strides off towards the farmhouse.
Going back inside, I try to remember whether Bill Lambert was to call me back before the weekend, at the weekend or after the weekend, Maybe the head-butt did more damage than I realised. I definitely won’t bother with golf today. I hate weekend competitions anyway: you often get young business types who are too busy on weekdays and think they know all the rules, and spout constantly about etiquette. I mean, if you lose a ball – which I often do – and have to take a drop with a new ball, does it matter if it moves an inch too far when you’ve still got three hundred yards to play? I chicken out and pick up the phone to let them know… etiquette, you see.
I’m doodling and realise I’ve drawn a matchstick man being beaten. It must be Barry Milton, along with an influence from L. S. Lowry, the artist famous for painting matchstick men. Lambert often works at the weekend, so I make the call. He is in.
‘Thought you were in the competition today,’ he answers by way of greeting.
‘Likewise,’ I reply, and relate the events of the evening before and the reasons for crying off the competition.
‘Very interesting,’ he comments. ‘Probably wise with a blow to the head. Could be mild concussion.’
‘Yeah, I felt fine first thing, but I am bit groggy now. The run-in last night with Barry Milton aggravated my back as well.’
‘Not your day, really, was it?’ Lambert commiserated.
‘No, it was not,’ I agree. ‘I thought it was worth seeing if you were in. Did you find out any more about this Barry Milton?’
‘Indeed I did,’ he confirms. ‘And after what you’ve just told me, methinks he won’t be showing up for his day job. How bad are you? Any chance of you getting into town? Better not to drive, though; my inside man in the fracking protester group is coming in later, so it might be useful to swap information.’
‘Count me in,’ I answer. ‘What time?’
‘After lunch. Say 2:30?’
‘OK, see you later.’
Despite Bill’s warning, I feel I’m OK to drive as far as Altrincham, where I can take the metro all the way to Greater Manchester Police HQ at Newton Heath. I back out the Saab, and foregoing the M6 motorway take a slower-paced relaxing route through the lanes to Altrincham.
I walk gingerly to the station, trying not to jar my back, picking up The Times newspaper from the kiosk on the way. I board the tram and am quickly immersed in headline stories of the day: political crises in the Middle East, Ukrainian separatism, and the rest. Halfway through the crossword, I’m at the St Peter’s square metro interchange. A change of tram onto the Rochdale line and I’m at Central Park, the nearest metro station for GMP HQ. There are a number of other passengers who alighted at this stop and are going in the same direction. I am the slowest walker, and
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