horror of horrors – the dreaded kimono arms. My mother had them, though her term was ‘bat wings’, so it must be a family failing.
‘Any questions?’ the manageress enquired, reaching the end of her spiel.
A young woman asked about a crèche for kids. Yes, there was one, which allowed mothers to enjoy quality time unencumbered, though you needed to book in advance. Another queried the views of the instructors on deep stretching, breathing technique and muscle balance. Both question and answer were delivered in solemn quasi-holy tones and sounded like double-Dutch.
‘How much is it to join the club?’ I asked, thinking that maybe I should enrol.
Garth House is less than ten minutes from home and surely Steve Lingard wouldn’t mind if I took an hour off twice a week? Not if I told him of all the unpaid overtime I’ve worked over the years, and still do. On second thoughts, he may well kick up. Would kick up. In which case I could come in the evenings, then treat myself to a plate of rabbit food for dinner.
‘There’s an initial joining fee of one thousand pounds, then the membership fee is two thousand pounds a year.’
What! Mercifully I didn’t shriek my horror out loud. I may only have myself to support and be comfortable, but there was no way I could justify spending forty pounds a week on knees bend, arms stretch, ra-ra-ra. Yet, by now, embarking on some form of exercise was beginning to seem essential.
‘And,’ the manageress added, as though this could swing it, ‘those who enrol within the next ten days will receive a free Feng Shui C.D.’
Big deal.
Five minutes later when I left the hotel, I was happy to note I felt absolutely no desire to micturate.
I travelled the same route back to the office. The road was clear. The squirrel had gone. Could it have picked itself up, dusted itself down and scampered blissfully off into the bushes? Or, the nightmare scenario, had that Tesco lorry appeared, the still-woozy squirrel becoming stuck to a tyre, meeting a torturous death revolving endlessly round and round?
CHAPTER FOUR
‘We should do an obituary on Duncan Kincaid,’ Steve Lingard decreed. ‘Alias Lord High and Mighty. Alias self-styled royalty. Alias pompous old git.’
‘You knew him?’ I asked.
‘Several years ago, he put money into an art gallery in Ringley and hosted a grand opening where he lengthily pontificated, the champagne flowed and to which I was invited. We did a piece about it in The Bugle and he came in afterwards to thank me. And to tell me what a splendid chap he was and how his beautiful, much younger, wife – who adored him and couldn’t leave him alone in bed – had been unable to attend the opening because she was at a health farm. ‘Being made even more beautiful.’ The art gallery didn’t last long. It’s one of those tanning studios now.’
‘Duncan did have his good points,’ I defended him, recalling how he had bragged of Tina ‘never leaving him alone’ to me, too. ‘For years he was chairman of the fête committee –’
‘This is Dursleigh’s annual summer fête?’
‘Right – and he worked hard to make it a success. He was also a master at distributing largesse. Gave generously to all kinds of groups, all kinds of people.’
‘I believe he used to flash around wads of notes?’
‘He did, which I thought was asking for trouble.’
‘Perhaps you’d go along and speak to his widow?’
It was Friday afternoon, three days later, and the editor had summoned me into his office. I hadn’t told him about gate-crashing the wake and swigging buckshee wine. Dingbat was not about to confess to faults to him. However, sod’s law said that, sooner or later, someone would be sure to reveal my presence and then I’d need to come up with a snappy explanation. Like I’d been shadowing Councillor Vetch?
‘You want me to write the obit?’ I said.
It must have been because I was in his office, and the association of place with
‘Any questions?’ the manageress enquired, reaching the end of her spiel.
A young woman asked about a crèche for kids. Yes, there was one, which allowed mothers to enjoy quality time unencumbered, though you needed to book in advance. Another queried the views of the instructors on deep stretching, breathing technique and muscle balance. Both question and answer were delivered in solemn quasi-holy tones and sounded like double-Dutch.
‘How much is it to join the club?’ I asked, thinking that maybe I should enrol.
Garth House is less than ten minutes from home and surely Steve Lingard wouldn’t mind if I took an hour off twice a week? Not if I told him of all the unpaid overtime I’ve worked over the years, and still do. On second thoughts, he may well kick up. Would kick up. In which case I could come in the evenings, then treat myself to a plate of rabbit food for dinner.
‘There’s an initial joining fee of one thousand pounds, then the membership fee is two thousand pounds a year.’
What! Mercifully I didn’t shriek my horror out loud. I may only have myself to support and be comfortable, but there was no way I could justify spending forty pounds a week on knees bend, arms stretch, ra-ra-ra. Yet, by now, embarking on some form of exercise was beginning to seem essential.
‘And,’ the manageress added, as though this could swing it, ‘those who enrol within the next ten days will receive a free Feng Shui C.D.’
Big deal.
Five minutes later when I left the hotel, I was happy to note I felt absolutely no desire to micturate.
I travelled the same route back to the office. The road was clear. The squirrel had gone. Could it have picked itself up, dusted itself down and scampered blissfully off into the bushes? Or, the nightmare scenario, had that Tesco lorry appeared, the still-woozy squirrel becoming stuck to a tyre, meeting a torturous death revolving endlessly round and round?
CHAPTER FOUR
‘We should do an obituary on Duncan Kincaid,’ Steve Lingard decreed. ‘Alias Lord High and Mighty. Alias self-styled royalty. Alias pompous old git.’
‘You knew him?’ I asked.
‘Several years ago, he put money into an art gallery in Ringley and hosted a grand opening where he lengthily pontificated, the champagne flowed and to which I was invited. We did a piece about it in The Bugle and he came in afterwards to thank me. And to tell me what a splendid chap he was and how his beautiful, much younger, wife – who adored him and couldn’t leave him alone in bed – had been unable to attend the opening because she was at a health farm. ‘Being made even more beautiful.’ The art gallery didn’t last long. It’s one of those tanning studios now.’
‘Duncan did have his good points,’ I defended him, recalling how he had bragged of Tina ‘never leaving him alone’ to me, too. ‘For years he was chairman of the fête committee –’
‘This is Dursleigh’s annual summer fête?’
‘Right – and he worked hard to make it a success. He was also a master at distributing largesse. Gave generously to all kinds of groups, all kinds of people.’
‘I believe he used to flash around wads of notes?’
‘He did, which I thought was asking for trouble.’
‘Perhaps you’d go along and speak to his widow?’
It was Friday afternoon, three days later, and the editor had summoned me into his office. I hadn’t told him about gate-crashing the wake and swigging buckshee wine. Dingbat was not about to confess to faults to him. However, sod’s law said that, sooner or later, someone would be sure to reveal my presence and then I’d need to come up with a snappy explanation. Like I’d been shadowing Councillor Vetch?
‘You want me to write the obit?’ I said.
It must have been because I was in his office, and the association of place with
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