PI GY 13 - Uncle Ted’s Big Balls and the Floral Floozie

“I think your Uncle Ted is having an affair.”

I stared at my 83 year old Aunt Edie as she twiddled, sadly, with a potted primrose.

Uncle Ted was 93 and I, quite frankly, didn’t think he was up to much; never mind an affaire d’passion.

“We’re down to once a week now.” She said quietly, with some embarrassment.

“Oh,” I said with a lot of embarrassment and rapidly widening eyes. My eyebrows were in the position that I would presume them to be in if a facelift had been carried out, when all is yanked upwards and a big knot of skin was tied like a bun, at the back of the head.
I really, really didn’t want to be having this conversation but Edie continued.

“I don’t really want to be bothered with a divorce but if he was I’d have to. I know you’re good at these things. Can you find out for me please?”

Early evening and I was sitting in my car waiting for my uncle to emerge and ready to follow him.
Talk about it all feeling rather surreal. Uncle Ted? Affair? No! Surely not? No! Please NO!

I looked at my watch. Hurry up Ted, I thought. With that thought, the dull green door opened and out he came. I heard Aunt Edie’s cheerful “Bye”  floating out behind him but he only grunted in return and waved his hand as though he was impatiently swotting something annoying away. The door closed softly behind him and he was off.

Not the fastest follow ever, I had to wait until he turned a corner before moving, as he took so long to shuffle down the road.
No way was this man capable of steamy afternoon sessions. Aunt Edie’s “Down to once a week” had the temerity to float through my mind and I shuddered before trying to slam the shutters down in my over imaginative imagination. Too late. The damage had already been done.

I suddenly realised that Ted had disappeared.

A slow drive saw him halfway up someone’s drive. A cherry red door opened and a woman, at least twenty years younger than Ted, stepped out. Okay, she was still in her 70s but it’s probably all relative if you’re 93.

Blowsy was the only word that sprang to mind. She had on a flowery dress which was so beautifully vintage looking I had to wonder if she’d bought it when it first hit the rails. Surprisingly trim, brown legs led down to a pair of gleaming white plimsolls. Her hair was practically yellow and a slash of red, the only added colour on her face, drew the eye, instantly, to a mouth which never seemed to keep still.

After  a hug and a kiss  - ON THE LIPS! – she turned away from Ted and they both disappeared into the house, the cherry red door creating an impenetrable barrier for my curiosity.

A few minutes later and a bedroom light went on and stayed on for the next 20 minutes.

I wasn’t sure what to make of 20 minutes. Was that an awfully long time or would it take Ted that long just to get his socks off? Did he even take his socks off? Oh God, please stop over thinking this.

Eventually, the cherry red door, once again, creaked open. It’s a good job it was noisy because I’d started to nod off. My senses, once again, were at full alert/disgust,

I watched, through narrowed eyes, as the Floral Floozy headed for the gate. Ted followed her and, behind her back, adjusted his undercarriage. OH GOD!

At the gate she waited for him and kept in pace with his shuffle as they went on their way.

I felt rather distraught for poor Aunt Edie.  She was so lovely she didn’t deserve this. Bloody Ted. I’d kill him if he was having an affair. Oh God, Tracey. Don’t even think about it...

Too late. The image of her bouncing about on top of him (albeit still in the floral frock), was already there and primed to pump up the cringe-o-meter.

Shaking my head to attempt to dislodge the frightening image, I continued my stop, start, slow follow, until they turned into a passageway between two houses. The passageway opened into a large, concrete car park with a stark, utilitarian clubhouse at the far end.

I hadn’t seen this place before and had no idea it was even here, what it was used for and for whom.

I had a quick look around but, when a disloyal lurcher barked, when it saw me peering through the window at Ted, with a pint of stout (probably needed some fortification by that point), laughing with the Floral Floozy twirling her CherryB, I had to make an hasty retreat.
Yes, I know the Floral Floozy was probably lovely, but he was my 93 year old uncle, Ted, married to my lovely 83 year old Aunt Edie.

With an heavy heart I phoned Edie and reported back.

The next day, Edie called me and asked if I would go around for tea and cake. As much as I tried to avoid cake it always seemed to just fall into my expanding lap – at least the crumbs did.

Edie was already waiting by the open, dull green door.

“It’s alright, luv, he’s confessed all.”

I was fumbling around in my pocket for a clean-ish tissue to proffer but then wondered why was Edie looking so happy?

Edie bustled me in and a plate of cake was in my hand before my bum had even connected with the my-niece-bought-it-from-Shackleton's high chair, cosily situated by the electric bar fire.

“He’s been meeting a woman called Florrie. She’s married to the lovely Jim. You remember Jim? He was always running people over with his mobility scooter. Anyway, he’s now totally bedbound which quite frankly, is safer for everyone, including Jim. Going out with Ted, gives Florrie a lovely break from all the caring and gives Jim a lovely break from all the caring. A win win.”

I was thinking that was rather bohemian of Edie and Jim, when she continued; “Anyway, Ted picks up Florrie to walk her to the bowling club  a couple of times a week. They are in the same team and found that he walked past her house, on the way.”

“But why the big secret and the sneaking around?” I queried, totally perplexed by this point.

“Apparently, the big lummox was embarrassed. He originally got dragged along by Burt and Banjo (Burt’s chilled out wiry lurcher) and found that he enjoyed it – the people and the playing – bowls not banjos.”

“But...but....why didn’t he say where he was going?”

Edie tutted. “He was embarrassed that, if he admitted to liking playing bowls,  it would make him look old and ruin his street cred...” Edie raised her eyebrows to the same level that mine had already shot up to.

“Good grief, Ted – you nearly ruined your marriage never mind your street cred!”

Ted just looked sheepish, took a massive bite of Rocky Road and then gave Edie a great big wink. Edie gave Ted a rather wicked, little smile...

I looked horrified, made an hasty exit and ran for the hills.

PI GY 12 - Waving To Petunia, Wind In His Sails and a Lot of Devotion

At the bottom of the steep, white, zig-zag, High Cliff steps, are two little shops, either side of the promenade exit.

The one on the right is a tasteful, contemporary satellite of the St. Peter’s Avenue, “Bend In The River” coffee shop. More kiosk than coffee shop, it does have some communal, polished wenge and stainless steel, skinny bench-tables on the pavement, in front. It has only been open a few weeks and probably kept going, up to now, by the owner of the left-hand unit. 

In contrast to the coffee shop, “Wind In Your Sails”  shouts a great big WHOOHOOYOO to passers-by. 

Cleethorpes, very own, informal, information officer and promoter, and drag-artiste extraordinaire, Ian B. Devotion, filled the tiny space with both himself and Local Art and Craft contemporary versions of the traditional seaside souvenir shop. As well as an outlet for his own hand-carved, wooden windmills, (highly coveted and in several high end galleries as well as the thirty metre high one on the North Prom), the joyous, colourful, space somehow managed to contain Art postcards and greeting cards, badges, keyrings, mugs, original paintings and prints, jewellery, handmade flip-flops, sliders, hoodies and towels, seaside-based smellies. Anything and everything as long as it was made by local people, reflected the local area and, most importantly, fitted in with Ian’s tasteful, if somewhat eclectic, aesthetic.  Not wanting to exclude the day trippers from the delights that Cleethorpes and Grimsby’s Artists and Creators could offer, prices ran from 50p (Badge or card bookmark) to £500 (paintings and sculptures). There was even a rack, squeezed in the corner, full of CDs and vinyl by local musicians of all genre.

Ian and I were perched upon wenge, freezing hands clasped around steaming mugs of rich, dark coffee, trying to fight off a biting cruel North Sea wind . We’d, somehow, managed to resist our usual oozing brownies. My, still dodgy knee, meant hobbling everywhere so walking a block, never mind fitness classes, were definitely out and trousers, and everything else, were definitely getting far too snug. Eurgh. 

Ian, at 6’4”, an imposing chap at the best of times, ran on caffeine alone when he had an upcoming show and tonight was such a night.  Ian B. Devotion was the host of The Estuary Elvis Talent Show and, as he proclaimed, rather loudly, 

“White and rhinestones are not terribly flattering darling. They show up every crumb of brownie. At least, several good coffees will wee out a few unwanted undulations.”

Rick, the glossy-haired, surfer-dude, owner of Bend In The River, rolled his eyes and let out a big sigh.

“You’d be my best customer if I didn’t give you mate’s rates, mate.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you love me and I encourage everyone to come and see you after visiting me AND everyone else I ever meet.”

“Fair enough. Are you sure you don’t want a brownie? On the house...”

“Ooh you temptress,” Ian pouted. “You only said that because you know I won’t! Are you coming tonight?”

“Absolutely!” chortled Rick. “I’ve got my stripy Jailhouse outfit already made and ready to Rock The Kasbah, Rock The Kasbah. Hope we won’t Clash – haha!”

Kasbah Lumpers’ Kaff, was the unlikely venue for a, potentially, crazy Elvis night but the cosy cafe had a small stage, great sound system and, at night, no neighbours to disturb, even when the clientele spilled out onto the dockside frontage.  They also did a mean cheese (or cheese-ish for the vegans) bun and pork dripping sandwich (no vegan alternative) as well as having a prized drinks licence.  The licence was always under review as someone, inevitably, fell in the dock and had to be fished out, whenever there was a ‘Do’ on. 

Other than cheese buns and the cafe itself, the other constant was Parfait Pete who had somehow transformed from the twenty year old, burly docker type, washer-upperer, to cafe owner and Parfait Petra, on certain nights (and some days, if he was feeling brave).

For some strange and inexplicable reason, a few decades ago, I’d spent my 18th birthday there eating cheese buns and drinking mugs of creamy cocoa, among burly dockers. I have absolutely no recollection of how I ended up there, or why, but, no doubt, copious amounts of snakebites were involved and not of the reptile variety – oops.

 I’m not too sure how Elvis Drag Nights would have gone down in those days though and the odd snatches of music were only provided by a tinny radio, hidden in the greasy, depths of the kitchen. There is something to be said for the 21st Century. 

Feeling a bit like I was ‘doing a deal’ I gave Ian another of my large paintings in exchange for a promise that my bank account would be a lot happier by the time that I got home. I clipped “Shaft”, the replacement for the sold “Slipways and Trails” in the coveted, blank space in the window of “Wind In Your Sails”. 

Ian gave me a big hug. I’m not a hugger but there was no escape from his flapping, vintage,  Afghan coat (which had never been cured properly and reeked to high Heaven) and Tom Baker-esque woolly scarf, which was almost big enough to wrap around The Point as a big tea cosy for the large shop and apartment block, at the top of the High Cliff steps. His favourite winter boots were Barbie Pink cowboy boots. This was his ‘restrained’ day wear. I was tempted to go to the Elvis night to see what his creation du couture would be for that – in fact, I may see if MarcieD or Ally fancy going. Thankfully, Elvis attire was optional.

It was getting on by the time I’d nipped down Seaview Street to grab some tester tins of posh paint and peered in all the shop windows, trying not to spend my portion of the recent painting sale before I’d even seen it sitting in my bank account. 

It was only when I was driving down Grimsby Road, homeward bound, that I saw the box of postcards, bookmarks and badges, sticking out from under the passenger seat. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered but Ian was having a small event the next day and had asked for more stock, specifically.  I took a right turn, came back up the next street and started to crawl back, in the rush hour traffic. Oh joy...

Ian, knowing that he’d be short for time, had brought his night-time outfit to the shop and, after closing a little earlier than normal, somehow managed to change in the tiny toilet, at the back of the shop. Putting his slap on, using a large, hand-crafted, wooden mirror he looked with pride at his sequined, white feathered headdress, his matching sequined eye shadow, massive, jet black lashes, pouty, red, glossed lips, sparkly white, flared jumpsuit and, his signature, tulle tutu – baby pink, in this instance.  In case of rain, and due to laziness, he’d kept the Barbie Pink cowboy boots on. All he had left to put on was the Ermine (faux, naturally), trimmed white cape. 

Hoping he wouldn’t be too lonesome tonight and that plenty more Elvis’ would show up, despite the weather, he locked up and pulled the shutters down. Hearing the loud clunk, Rick, who was cleaning the small kitchen in his unit, turned around to give Ian a wave and mouth, “See you later”. He got two thumbs up, a curtsey and a big, red, glossy grin in reply. 

Ian bounded up the steps, behind Wind In Your Sails and turned around to look at the tide which was on the way in.

Something caught his eye and he squinted into the wind to see better.

Amusing myself by blasting out Radio 1, I continued my car-crawl up Isaac’s Hill, along the High Street, down Sea Road and turned right, in front of The Pier, along the seafront. At this time I knew that I wouldn’t have any problem parking and I got right in front of the shops. 

Damn, Ian had shut up shop early but, thankfully, although now closed for business, Rick was still to be seen, beavering away in the back of Bend In The River. He looked a little grumpy when I tapped on the window but, thank goodness, smiled when he saw that it was just me. 

“Thank goodness, it’s just you.” He said. “Someone always wants a fancy coffee as soon as I’ve cleaned the machine up. Every.....single.....time....” He hit me when I asked him for a coconut milk, cappuccino. 

“Ow! Actually, could you do me a favour please? I got stuck in traffic and have missed Ian. I’ve got this stock for his event tomorrow. Could I leave them here and ask you to give them to him in the morning?”

“Of course. No problem, at all. Look, I’m about to lock up but need a quick bite before I go to the Estuary Elvis Talent Show. Fancy joining me?”

“Yes please,” I salivated, “I haven’t even thought about dinner.”

Rick, locked up, pulled down his shutters and we greedily picnicked on leftovers, eyed by even greedier seagulls. Rick used me as a guinea pig to sample his new, bacon and asparagus, flavour coconut ice cream. It was surprisingly tasty and no pigs were harmed in the making. I had a goat cheese and roasted red pepper panini and Rick had some meaty version. I then caved and we gorged on three brownies between us. My clothes were shrinking by the moment.

“We probably should have saved one for Ian’s breakfast.” I said, wiping crumbs and chocolate sludge from the rather large area surrounding my mouth. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t let him starve. Hey – what is that?”

I’d had my back to the murky brown sea, which was rushing in, and, being rather brick wall-like, had blocked Rick’s view, until he moved to throw a bit of crust to the nearest seagull, which shrieked with pleasure as it swooped to claim its prize. 

“I think it’s Ian.” I frowned. “He looks like a massive seagull!  What’s he doing out there – I thought he wanted to get to the Kasbah Kaff early?”

“Dunno. Must have fancied a walk first.”

Ian, aka the big flapping seagull, turned and waved at us.

“YooooHooooo!” we yelled and waved back.

“Do you think he’s enjoying himself, Petunia?” I laughed. Rick looked confused.

“Years ago there was a public information film featuring a married couple called Joe and Petunia. They were rather dense and thought that a man in a boat was waving at them but really he was in trouble and needed the coastguard to rescue him.” 

Rick and I looked at each other and stopped laughing as we suddenly realised that we may have been rather dense ourselves. We looked at Ian again, who was waving frantically at us and mouthing something that we couldn’t hear. He started pointing at a small, black blob, just before the oncoming tide. 

I grabbed my phone and used the camera to zoom in.

“Christ. There is a child stuck in the mud. Possibly a dog, as well and I don’t think that Ian can move.”

“Call the Coastguard on 999.” Rick yelled over his shoulder as he ran across Sea Road, practically vaulted the railings and landed on the beach, a considerable way below.

“Already on it.” I yelled back and hobbled towards the direction of the lifeboat station yelling both into my phone as well as to anyone else that could hear me.

Within minutes the Lifeboat people had managed to rescue a young boy, his equally young dog, and a very bedraggled seagull come Elvis come Drag Artiste, who had all got dragged down by the hidden, sneakily-shifting, quicksand and Rick had sullied his clean machine to revive everyone with hot coffee. 

All that remained, as the angry North Sea claimed the sand, was a pair of Barbie Pink cowboy boots, rapidly filling up. 

Albeit as snug as my clothes, I was able to lend Ian my wellies, which I kept in my car for emergencies. Being Ian he snorted at the boring blackness of them as he squeezed them on over his red, silver and sandy, striped long socks.

The hero of the hour, Ian found himself plastered all over the front of the next day’s Grimsby Telegraph. As well as rescue photos, the photographer had gone to the Elvis Event and the main photo was a delighted Ian B. Devotion holding his winner’s trophy aloft for his performance of “All Shook Up”. Even Parfait Petra, MarcieD, Ally and I ended up as Cover Girls with all the Drag-Elvis’. I really wished I hadn’t eaten those brownies!

When he had belted out “Well, my hands are shaky and my knees are weak.

I can't seem to stand on my own two feet. Who do you think of when you have such luck?” 

The whole of the Lifeboat crew, who had turned out in force, responded with: 

“I'm in love. He’s all shook up. Ha ha ha, Ha ha ha, YAY YAY...”

As well as Headlining the Estuary Elvis Talent Show, The Grimsby Telegraph and The Wind In Your Sails event, Ian found himself presented with his cleaned up and dried out cowboy boots, safely retrieved by one of the Lifeboat crew, when the tide went back out and they were still suckered in the mud, plus a whole brownie cake, made especially for his very favourite customer, by Rick.

Ian B. Devotion – Local legend. 

PI GY 11 - Carlos Wildebeast, the Gold Lurex Trunks and a Tiny Hint of Tom Jones.

Five minutes previously, Carlos Wildebeast had, rather hysterically, seen his gold lurex trunks being waved out of a pale green, ancient, Nissan Datsun Sunny's, window as they rapidly disappeared out of sight down North Sea Lane. The trunks were accompanied by hysterical drunken screeching, cackles and laughter and a lone, male, designated driver with a world-weary expression of resignation.

Carlos was used to ‘losing’ pairs of trunks and purchased them in bulk, but, throbbing head, in trembling hands, he pictured himself, all too clearly, folding up a sheet of paper and putting it ‘just for now’ in the back patch pocket. Ironically he had done this so he wouldn't lose it. Now it was gone. Honey-B was going to kill him.

Two months of phone calls had gone into that list. Two whole months. It was the last thing he’d printed out before his laptop hissed, spat, turned blue screen and died. He’d meant to photocopy it, just in case, but hadn't got around to it. Now he was stuffed.  No gig list, no names, no phone numbers. Stuffed more than a vegetarian’s marrow.

He stared at the grubby, little dressing room in hope of inspiration but found none. To his horror he heard the clip-clop of high mules; the type that looked like they had a rabbit’s puff tail stuck on the front.

“Christ! OW!” yelled Honey-B as she coggled over on one. “Bloody floors.” 

Funny how the floors in every club were the same ‘bloody floors’ thought Carlos. They always made her fall over. Why didn't she just say bloody stupid shoes or bloody stupid me for wearing bloody stupid shoes?

“Are you ok, Love?” he tried to sound sincere. “You’d think they’d sort the floors out just for you, wouldn't you?” As he was pulling  a sympathetic face she only briefly wondered if he was being ‘funny.’

Carlos Wildebeast and Honey-B had an Act, somewhere between burlesque and sleaze, that appealed to women of a certain age that drank Cherry B, Babysham or Snowballs; reminding them of the good times had in the Toby Inn in the late 60s/early 70s.

The phone rang and I cursed not grabbing it before I had piled a dog and my dinner on top of me and getting all comfy in the comfy armchair. I had made sure the remotes were to hand but forgot the phone. Damn it. Plate crashed down onto the side table, nearly knocking over my steaming mug of Earl Grey. Dog then carefully ejected, I just made it before the answer machine kicked in. If there is one thing I hate more than answering the phone it is ringing people back who have left a message.

“Oh Hi MarcieD, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” She croaked. “Well, apart from this wretched cold that WILL NOT GO.” She tried to shout in frustration but croaked just marginally louder. “ I've got a job for you. Paul and Deirdre Crumpsall – you may know them better as Carlos Wildebeast and Honey-B – have got an urgent problem and I said I know just the woman to help: The PI from GY!”

“Great, thanks, MarcieD. I've just reunited yet another wandering dog and finished trailing yet another  wandering husband so the diary is empty at the moment. “

Since Private Investigations Grimsby had been set up, my ramshackle team and I had managed to keep a good flow of cases coming in. Much to my surprise and to the relief of my bank balance. However, my team were still having to help out for mates rates. That basically meant the odd beer or sandwich here and there. Luckily they enjoyed it and luckily I had great friends who liked to see me pay my bills.

MarcieD filled me in. As a singer she travelled the same club circuit as the Crumpsalls and she knew how hard it was to set up gigs so she understood the hysteria. They remembered the details of the next two nights but nothing after that. They were so used to living day to day – or rather night to night. I arranged to meet them before their next gig. 

Due to their act being a bit risqué they had to find venues that had a closed off room. Hotels were good for that and tonight they were booked for a hen party in the function room at the B&B-B&B. Bertie and Bill were always good for a laugh and always insisted on ‘feeding them up’ afterwards. Neither of them felt hungry though and they weren’t talking to each other either. Not great for rapport in their line of business.

I was meeting them at 7pm, just before their show, and it was now 12.30. I shovelled down my lunch and then shovelled lunch into the dogs who, annoyingly, seemed to be on a go-slow-chew followed by an interminable find-the-right-spot amble around the garden to swiftly get rid of the dinner. With the price of their food I didn't appreciate this for several reasons.

Time was pressing and I forced myself to drive to Cleethorpes and see the manager of The Beachcomber, the club where the gold lurex trunks had made their last appearance.

Luckily it had been sold out and no tickets were sold on the door. He agreed to give me the list of names he had. I'm sure data protection should have had something to say about this but he didn't say anything and neither did I. We both wanted to help out so discretion was assured.

The list wasn't very comprehensive but did comprise of a name and a town. Mostly Grimsby and Cleethorpes but with the odd Immingham, Tetney, Holton-le-Clay  and, rather annoyingly one from Sheffield. That would just be my luck.

Actually, just for once – I actually had some good luck. This doesn't normally happen. I'm more the Sheffield-luck type. The further away and more awkward something is the more I'm likely to have to travel that particular route. I wasn't going to complain though and, have a break - have a Kit-Kat - was good enough for me, if not before time.

As I was passing the gatehouse to exit the Beachcomber, I saw a pale green, ancient, Nissan Datsun Sunny drive past the entrance. I got a move on and followed it. It drove through The Fitties, and parked up outside a ramshackle holiday chalet. 

I parked up a bit behind it, waited until the world-weary man shuffled his way up the path and through the front door.

I strolled up to the car and peeked in. There they were. Glinting in the sunlight on the parcel shelf behind the back seat. Better still there was a hint of the gig sheet sticking out from the pocket.

Smug about my fantastic detecting skills, ok – luck, I carried on with my strolling and hammered on the chalet door.

“Yeah? Whaddya wont?” growled a scary woman with a voice as rough as a badger’s backside. I hastily explained and she, although complaining of a mega-hangover, was with it enough to realise that she was in possession of something important and I had to hand over £20 before she would unlock the car and give the list back to me. 

She kept the gold lurex trunks to have a bit of fun with tonight.... That poor husband would probably have to perform an impression of Carlos-Not-So-Wilde or she’d eat him alive. Poor sod.

I called both MarcieD and Carlos to share the good news and they were both immensely impressed with my wonderful detecting skills. I wore my smug face for the rest of the afternoon.

As much as I wanted to, I just couldn't get away after presenting Carlos and Honey-B with their next 8 months of income. They wouldn't stop hugging me, while I did a good impression of an ironing board while trying to smile rather than grimace. I really can’t be doing with all this mwah mwah stuff. It didn't help that Carlos only had on his trademark, gold lurex trunks and Honey-B only had on some fuchsia pink, frilly knickers and a white feather boa. It had been raining and she was still wearing her green Hunter wellies, which I felt were just wrong – even though they were the only part of the ensemble  I actually felt comfortable with.

Carlos and Honey-B insisted I stayed to watch the show for free as a present. Oh gawd – I really didn't want to but felt it was rude to refuse, especially as Bertie and Bill insisted I stay for the after show supper. Never one to resist the offer of free food, I fatally hesitated for too long and my fate was sealed.

I had an hour of sitting among the biggest concentration of animal print I had ever been in close proximity to. The bride, complete with feathered wings and crooked tiara, must have been on her fifth or sixth husband as the party all looked like they were going out on the razz because it was pension day.

As much as I looked at the tasteful prints on the wall, the carpet, the furniture, the back of my eyelids, there was no escape from the multiple dropping of the feather boa. Ooh dear. 

Then it was the grand finale. They were off and flying through the air towards a multitude of hands. The gold lurex trunks were being fought over as I forgot myself and looked forward.

Oh my goodness!

Carlos Wildebeast certainly had something to hang his hat on!

PI GY 10 – The Relocation of Howard, The Bouncy-Bouncy and the Addicted Dick.

There we were all a-walking down the street, but without the doo-waah-diddys. 

Saying that, being between the Amazon and the Jamaican, I did feel like the diddy of the three of us.

MarcieD was wearing some weird blingy track suit type of get up but, somehow getting away with it. Oozing class, she could have walked into the Ritz for afternoon tea and looked perfectly acceptable. If I wore that I’d look like Waynetta Slob-on a bad day, so not fair. Hot Toddy was barely wearing a khaki linen skirt which was considerably shorter than her long, golden, athletic legs. If I could choose a decent pair of legs out of a catalogue they would be the ones. Once again, not fair.

The downside of having a lovely cool house, in summer, is that you are fooled. You think it is perfectly fine to pop on your coat to go out in but then find, after only a block , there it is. Tomato face. You’d think I’d learn, but, no.

So there I was, sandwiched between two stunners, bright red and sweaty and, just to make matters worse, carrying a grey bucket with a fish in it, while they had their designer handbags swinging from their beautifully manicured hands. I sighed and just got on with it. Resigned.

Up until yesterday, Howard, the large Shubunkin, had resided in  splendid comfort.   Then the tank blew up. Lots of bangs and pops and hisses and then it died. Fortunately, Howard had escaped being fried as he was swimming happily in a bowl while having his sheets changed. Tank cleaned, I mean. The sea may have a bed but the tank didn’t.

A quandary was then to be had. I was running my fish down by not replacing them as they ghost-swam off into the River Styx . Howard was big. Howard needed a big tank. Buying a big tank, with money I didn’t have, was silly for just one fish. With a very heavy heart I rang the Aquatic shop on Hainton Avenue and asked if they could possibly re-home Howard for me. Thankfully they could so now we were taking a fish for a walk. To his new home.

We spread across the width of the pavement, West Side Story fashion, or rather Welhome Road fashion, before cutting the corner off by single-filing it down a passage.

“Good God, MarcieD, what the hell was that for?” My heart was in my mouth and Howard was surfing the waves in his bucket after MarcieD’s screech-laugh-hysterical-very-loud-noise thing.

“Did you see that?” she said, mouth still wide open and lips trembling with laughter. “Oh my goodness. Scared the life out of me.”

I looked down, to check on Howard, mumbling negatives, just as Hot Toddy did exactly the same, louder, if at all possible and Howard, once again, rode the waves.

Hot Toddy and MarcieD were holding on to each other, jumping up and down and nearly weeing themselves laughing. I just tried not to frown.

“What, what what? WOAH!!! Oh my God.” I carefully put the sloshing Howard on the floor and joined in the rugby-team-scored-a-big-score-scrum-hug. “Oh that is hysterical,” I screamed, while holding onto my bladder as best as I could.

We strained, on tip-toes, to look over the garden wall of the passage house and boiiiing, there it was. Up and downing like a thing crazed, was a grinning English Bull Terrier. On a trampoline. It would jump off, run round, run up and onto the small round exercise trampoline and boiiiiiiing, look over the wall. Bounce off and repeat. Constantly. Even more hysterical, as it obviously wasn’t bothering him in the slightest, he had one front leg in plaster with a neon-pink bandage over the top. If dogs had their own Paralympics this 3-legged canine would have got gold in the Gymnastics. No problem.

We must have watched this live version of “You’ve Been Framed” for 10 minutes or more, before reluctantly dragging ourselves away.

With a mix of still giggling and trying not to sob, I handed over Howard to his protector (I hoped), while the three of us struggled  but managed to get out what we had just seen.

“Oh that’s just Fred,” said Aquatic Man. “He actually broke his leg trampolining, in the first place. He gets bored though and they can’t stop him. They took it away and he just howled all day so they had to let him carry on. He’s bonkers, won’t touch a ball or a stick. They take him to agility classes once a week. He loves that. Wins everything.” Maybe he does have some Golds after all, we girly-giggled.

Over steaming mugs of builders tea in Yes Chef! Cafe, handily straight across the road from the Aquatic shop, we started to discuss ‘The Grubby Little Letter.’

“Any ideas?” I asked but Hot Toddy and MarcieD just shook their pretty little heads. I sighed. “C’mon girls we’re supposed to be detectives not a bunch of Charlies.” They just gazed angelically, but unhelpfully, at me while slurping their teas.

I took the single sheet of grubby paper out of its grubby envelope and for the hundredth time read the brief but menacing words:

“You’re on our patch. Get off....”

Once again my stomach flipped over. I detest confrontation. I would love to think I could always flourish the perfect riposte, whip it in the air and cut my opponent to shreds, but, in reality, it just does not happen and I burble some rubbish or other and run away as fast as I can.

“Okay, let’s think about this,” I said. “Why is it so mucky? Who would have such filthy fingers? A gardener? A Coalman? I don’t suppose refuse collectors have dirty hands now it’s all wheelie bins and recycle boxes. There’s a rag and bone man comes round on a horse and cart but would he have dirty hands?”

I shoved the letter back in my pocket as the glazed faces told me we wouldn’t get any further with this puzzle just at the moment.

“MarcieD, not sure if you’ll fancy this one and, quite frankly I’m not sure how we’ll make you look anything other than a classy bird anyway. Can you remember ages ago when Hot Toddy was delivering our flyers and that woman from Oxford Street was asking her all the questions about us?”

Before MarcieD had the chance to answer Hot Toddy rather wickedly interjected;

“Yes, she thinks her husband’s getting his ‘ego’ massaged at Nicorette’s Knocking Shop down Grimsby Road. Seems he’s a bit addicted and he’s having a problem giving up. Tracey wants you to pretend to be a Nymph of the Pave and haul him in in your nets. Your fishnets – Hahaha!”

MarcieD glared at me and then at Hot Toddy.

“Why not you, little Miss Hot Hot Hot?” she enquired with eyebrows raised so high they disappeared.

“He knows who I am,” she said. “He gets his papers from my Dad’s shop. Telegraph when he’s with her and Sun when he’s not.”

I could see MarcieD’s part-time Actress’ mind turning over and with each second her eyebrows slowly returned to their normal, perfectly plucked, position.

“I suppose I could think of it as researching a part,” she murmured out loud. “Can I be a high-class call girl?”

“Not on Grimsby Road, outside a Kebab Shop.” I said. “Look, it shouldn’t be for long. We’ll know when he goes out, as Jackie will ring us when he leaves. No way he’ll be able to resist you and as soon as you start to get in the car we’ll take photos and that will be that. Quick, easy and something for your CV.”

So, there we were. The sign was flickering for Nicolette’s Massage Parlour. How they got away with it I have no idea but it had been there for years. Flashing away at the weary traveller as they came into town. Grubby net curtains at the first floor windows floated between the fresh air outside and who knew what inside. A few policemen probably – to account for the longevity.

After a major grump, MarcieD hadn’t washed her hair for 3 days as it was the only way to mask her expensive haircut. We plastered her beautiful face with far too much make up, rubbed if off a bit and smeared it a little, adding a few shadows as we went. God that woman’s looks were hard to dumb down. When we’d finished though she did look a little more Grimsby than Hollywood Red Carpet.

Ally, was a few sizes smaller than MarcieD; flatter and a lot less curvy. We raided her wardrobe and found some far too short, far too tight, clashing clothes. MarcieD had her own fishnets and borrowed some killer heels from Hot Toddy. I was slightly peeved that I had absolutely nothing to offer from my own wardrobe to contribute.

We parked down a side street and waited for the call. Thankfully it wasn’t long in coming and MarcieD shrugged off her coat and slinked out of the car. She was already lost in her character and sashayed, sassily, to the corner. Within 5 minutes 3 cars had slowed to a halt and she’d Pretty-Womaned through their opened passenger windows before they’d hastily driven off. Afterwards, we’d found out she’d told them that she was undercover, on a mission, and they couldn’t accelerate fast enough out of the way.

Here it was, a red Honda en-route to Nicorettes. MarcieD stuck out her chest, which nearly blocked the road, and one hip. Feet planted apart with promise.

Mr Dick, (yes, seriously – you shouldn’t play away from home with a name like that), couldn’t resist the new girl on the block. He had intended to be thrashed a little by Darlia, but Wow, what the hell was this? No doubt she was out to make some money and no doubt he was prepared to give her some.

Just as he got within touching distance, two drunks staggered out of the Kebab Shop and leered at MarcieD. Damn she thought but they just offered her a chip. Realising they were far too gone to be any trouble she smiled lustily at them, but not for their benefit, and took a long chip. They carried on their zig-zag way home while MarcieD popped the long chip into her mouth and sucked it, pulling it out slowly and seductively before swiftly biting the end off.  I cursed as I dropped my camera and Hot Toddy nearly peed herself laughing. Shaking as she silently rocked, desperately trying to control herself. I just knew that MarcieD would never, ever, be able to eat chips in front of us again without hysterical suggestiveness.

Darlia peeked out from behind the grubby curtain not sure whether she was relieved not to have to put up with Dick the Dick or cross at the loss of a precious hour’s pay. She pulled her robe tightly around her and, with a big sigh, went off to make a cup of tea.

We got our photographs. MarcieD got an expanded résumé, Mrs. Dick got a good settlement for her divorce and PI GY got handsomely paid. Another case closed. Now we just had to close our own grubby little case and all would be well.

PIGY 9 – The Human Sledge, The Big Girth and The Safety of Sand

OOOF – AAARGH – OOOH – OW- OOOOOH

Don’t think I’ll be trying this again in a hurry. I lay there for a moment, flat out on my front, wondering if I could move and desperately trying not to cry with pain and frustration. I knew if I started I’d end up like Alice in a big pool and this was supposed to be beach not sea.

The realization that there may be people about, made me decide to try. Tentatively, I moved my foot. Phew – at least I hadn’t done that pathetic girly thing of twisting my ankle and the other one was okay too.

I was pleased about that as it meant I was less likely to be plucked up by a huge gorilla and be dangled from the top of the Empire State Building. Then again, as I wasn’t Jessica Lange, and I wasn’t in a film, it was fairly unlikely anyway. The air-sea rescue helicopter was circling in the blue sky above me. I wondered whether to wave for help but then got embarrassed at the thought they may have spotted me anyway.

A bit of a wiggle ascertained that my right knee worked but, oh crap, I’d landed on my useless knee that had just got better. NOOOOO, not again.

I had a slight panic then, really wondered how I could get up. Had to. No choice. I could hear voices. Luckily I had gone down on a dune track that was in a bit of a trench with high-ish maron grass either side. At least sand was the best to fall onto. You didn’t tend to get grazed knees on sand – not unless you landed on some sharp shells anyway.

I was hanging on to the three leads for dear life. The dogs looked bemused.

“What the hell are you doing down there?” They would have woofed at me but they knew I didn’t understand dog. Mabel stared at me with her blue eyes and looked upwards. I knew that meant “Get up, you look silly.”

Oh, slight problem. The leads had somehow twisted and tied my wrists together. Great.

A bit like an escapologist, but without the big tank of water, or strait-jacket, and, thankfully, without the audience, as long as I got a move on, I writhed and wriggled onto my good knee and then, sorry Maude, used Maude as a table to push myself up. She nearly crumpled but managed to stay upright and I was relieved that I hadn’t broken her back as well as actually managing to get up.

I had to bend over to un-twizzle the leads as I had kept them short while we walked from the car to the salt-marsh, where I had hoped to let them off for a good run.

A small terrier, not on a lead, and with no owner in sight, had come belting towards us. My three, obviously sensing a tiny dog as a massive threat to us all had gone pack-like and dived towards it. The problem was, I was attached to them and their combined might was far more than mine. They were the Huskies and I was the sledge – Whooooosh, off we all went. Splat, I went.

This was the very reason I didn’t normally take all three out on my own, but today everyone else was busy so I had no choice but to try. Unfortunately it turned out to be a big fail. Fraught and injured I turned round and hobbled, very painfully, back to the car. Luckily I wasn’t back to square one, knee-wise, but I certainly felt like I’d slid down a big snake. Don’t pass Go, don’t collect £200.

Sand had always been somewhat of a saviour to me. When I was still at school, every Saturday morning I would head off to Seaview Riding Stables on my ratty blue RSW 14 bike. Riding hat firmly on and crop in hand. It was inevitable that I always got some clown yelling at me;

“Lost yer ‘orse Luv?”

After dismounting from my bike I would mount my favourite horse, Bluebird. A massive White, as wide and as comfortable as an armchair.

I had a Polo the other day and all the old horsey memories came flooding back. The mingled aromas of steamy horse flesh and breath, manure, sweet hay and mint. The tickling by the bristles on my outstretched palm as he gently slobbered all over me to get his treat. The nuzzling at my pocket for “More please,” while I wiped my slimy hand on my jodhpurs.

My Grandfather had ordered me some jodhpurs from the back of a magazine. I excitedly ripped the packaging open only for the whole of the assembled family to fall about in stitches, clutching their sides in agony, wheezing with laughter. They were the really old-fashioned type with massive stiff, sticky out bits at the top of the legs. To my utter humiliation I was made to put them on and parade about. How anybody survived that performance I do not know. They were utterly hysterical. Needless to say they were sent back and I didn’t have to suffer humiliation in public – thank goodness.

The yard girls would always come round and make you sling one leg forward. They would then furtle about under the saddle to tighten the girth by pulling the double buckles tight before sticking a couple of fingers underneath to check it wasn’t too tight.

One day, I must have been too busy, patting Blackbird, feeding him Polos and twisting my fingers in his silky mane, to notice I had been missed out in the girth checking session.

All was fine as we clip clopped our way down the streets, leaning back in our saddles down the steep hill, before crossing King’s Road. Metal shoes slightly slipping on the cobbles, we filed down Brighton Slip, onto the soft, sandy beach.

Cleethorpes Beach                                                                                                          ©Tracey Edges

We’d walk for a bit, then trot for a bit and then the lead group would break ahead from the rest and start cantering. Bluebird was perfect for a canter. His rolling gait and wide back just carried you along through the fresh, salty sea air.

That’s when I suddenly felt a bit odd, wrong even. Oh God – my saddle suddenly slipped to the side. Startled I moved against it and my foot shot straight through my stirrup, which ended up around my knee.

Feeling like I was in slow-motion, I disappeared slowly downwards until I was underneath a cantering horse, hanging on for dear life.

“Help,” I feebly croaked with shock. “HEEEEELLLLLP,” I yelled in fear of my life. Luckily, with Blackbird being a beast of massive proportions. My unfettered leg dangled a foot, or so, above the ground.

Eventually realising my not-terribly-small predicament. The two lead riders yelled for everyone to pull up and steer away from me and then they rode their horses to block Bluebird and slow him down. Not before time – I really don’t think that my white knuckles could have hung on for too much longer.

Just to add insult to injury. Blackbird had a massive pee. How it missed me I don’t really know. Rather needed one myself by that point.

I was thankful that I had forgiving sand to drop down onto and, momentarily, on my back, underneath Blackbird, I saw that he was, indeed, a horse of massive proportions.

“Do you want a wheelbarrow again?” snorted Gangly Ben.

“I most certainly do not,” I snarled down the phone. “Does Ally happen to be with you? I’ve tried her flat and her mobile, but no answer.” That was unusual for Ally as she usually had it either clasped to her ear or was madly texting or changing her online status. She was never hard to pinpoint so this was slightly disconcerting.

“Erm...” said Ben.

“Erm?” I questioned.

“Well she sort of is.”

“What do you mean she sort of is?”

I frowned. Oops. I stopped frowning.

“Well......she’s in, erm....the shower actually.....” he trailed off.

Well, what’s the problem with that? Why are you sounding odd? Oh No! Oh yes! You haven’t, have you? You have. Oh my goodness. Really? Yes! Thank god for that.”

It was about time that Ally and Ben, got around to ‘Doing It’. They were made for each other. I was laughing and Gangly Ben was on his third WHOOP when he went very very quiet.

Ally, wrapped in a big fluffy towel, was glaring at him for sharing. She of the share-everything mentality.

“I’d better go,” he whimpered. “Oh, did you want something?”

“No. No. It’s alright. I’ll see you both tomorrow at, 11-ish?”

“Yeah that’s fine,” he practically whispered. Used to his normal Great Dane like enthusiasm and deep voice. I felt his pain. Trust me to interfere at exactly the wrong moment. Well, it could have been a slightly worse moment, but even so...

I gathered a few bits around me; multiple remotes, a big glass of water and lemon juice, the Radio Times and a pen and crashed out on the sofa. I was just thinking how lovely it was when the girls all jumped on me, rearranged the cushions to suit, took over most of the sofa and snuggled down. Maude yapped softly in her sleep, Lucaya twitched away (probably dreaming of the run she very nearly got) and Mabel snored her head off. It wasn’t long before I joined her.

It is really embarrassing, never mind annoying, to be woken up by someone banging on the window, staring in at you, when you could lay bets that you probably had had your mouth wide open and were unlikely to be looking your glamorous best - not that I ever managed to achieve glamour when awake. Let’s be honest.

By the time that I had shook my head awake, squeezed out from under the hysterically barking dogs, who were happily trampling all over me, and hobbled to the door, the Peeping Tom had gone but there was an envelope sticking through the letterbox.

I like getting letters, as long as they’re not in brown envelopes, as that usually spells trouble. This one was long and white with grubby black marks all over it.

“Oooh, “ I said aloud. “Oh.”

On a single sheet of, also grubby, paper was very badly written:

“You’re on our patch. Get off....”

PIGY 8 – The Wrap-Dress, The Boors and Mel Brookes

The White Hart had filled up and I didn’t want to lose my seat so, after a few self-conscious flappings of my hand, I caught the attention of the barman. With the universal sign for a drink you have to remember to twist your hand backwards and forwards and not go up and down or that would give out a whole different message, entirely, and probably cause you some trouble. After an enthusiastic, hopeful smile he brought me another pint. I do appreciate a bit of helpful service so bought him one too.

Mr. Blackwell and his three partners in crime, had, by this time, knocked back quite a few pints and were, rather usefully, getting louder. Rather un-usefully though they were being really boring and just bitching about what cars the accountancy partners had given themselves as that year’s bonus.

I switched off a little and listened to the sonorous tones drifting over me from the small stage in the back corner. The beautiful singer was of Jamaican descent and her long braided hair tumbled down to her amble bum which was ensconced in the tightest caramel-coloured, cashmere, wrap-dress, imaginable. She looked absolutely stunning and made the stage glow with her presence. When she opened her mouth, all around, melted into the music.

MarcieD was a good friend and I tried to melt into my booth and not attract attention to myself. I couldn’t help mouthing along to my favourite song though – ironically titled “Too Much War.” I wondered if I could get MarcieD on board to be part of the crew on the good ship PIGY. It may be worth an ask as she tended to be available in the daytimes, well afternoons anyway. She’d be no good for surveillance though – no way that MarcieD could ever blend in anywhere.

Just as they were getting too loud and utterly boorish, I heard;

“Come on, then – I’m bored here. Let’s find somewhere a bit livelier...” The implication hung in the air, on a pole. Three out of four were up for it but Mr. Blackwell had decided to stay.

“Miserable sod,” the others jostled him. “All too much for you mate – heh heh?!”

“Just go,” he said, “It’ll all be sorted soon and then I can breathe.”

They carried on waving and jeering and making the universal sign, that wasn’t asking for a drink, as they loudly crashed through the door onto Bethlehem Street in search of non-intellectual activity.

I saw Hot Toddy, quickly knock back what was left of her cocktail and swivel slowly on her stool so she was facing Mr. Blackwell.

“Ooh, you look miserable,” she purred. “I’m just about to have another one. Would you like one to cheer yourself up?” He briefly wondered if she was a prostitute but then received a blast of class and wealth and instantly dismissed that thought.

“Sorry,” he said

“Sorry?” she said. “Sorry for what?”

“Oh, erm nothing,” he spluttered. Realising, with horror, that his thoughts had slipped into his words. “Let me. What would you like?”

Drinks in hand, they got chatting about all and nothing. He was leaning towards her but not in a flirty way. Several drinks down the line and he was feeling the need to unburden. I saw Hot Toddy’s arm go round him and, in one way I was glad that he was getting stuck in but also sad that a lovely woman like Amanda was being treated quite so shabbily. Maybe he needed to change his friends. I couldn’t see the boy wonders being a great influence on anyone really.

Suddenly, Hot Toddy laughed, punched Mr. Blackwell, in a matey way and turned round to me with a massive gleaming white toothy smile and waved me over.

Ooh, that wasn’t what I was expecting, at all.

“Hey!” I smiled quizzically at her, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. He was also laughing and looking concerned all at the same time.

“Bit of a mix up here,” she said.

“I feel terrible,” he said. “Poor Amanda.” “Oh God I hope she’ll forgive me.”

“What???! I practically screamed with frustration. “WHAT???”

“She means so much to me and we’re so busy I just thought it would be such a lovely surprise. I really didn’t know it would be so hard to lie to her though. It’s doing my head in.”

“WHAT???” I did yell this time. MarcieD glanced over with a bit of a fierce frown but when she saw it was only me and my big mouth, she gave me a big wave instead.  I mouthed a silent, this time, “Sorry” in her direction.

Hot Toddy took over the conversation:

“Turns out, this chap here is a great big softie really.” I tried to instantly turn my opinion round of this ‘beast’. Nope, I needed more information first – I’d had to deal with the copious snotty tissues.

“The blonde in the car park. That was Mel Brookes.” No, not the old male version, (American film director, screenwriter, composer, lyricist, comedian, actor, producer), but the English Daytime TV presenter with the addition of an ‘e’ in Brookes. “She was picking up the house keys, while Amanda was at work, so they could do some secret filming for “We’ll Do Your New House Up”, a new programme where they decorate your new house and move you in without you knowing anything about it. Surprise Surprise!”

It was a surprise to me, I didn’t really know what to say for a second.

“What about your Dirty Weekend?” I asked.

“That was with Amanda,” he laughed. To get her out of the way while they did the work and moved us into the new house. I didn’t realise it would take so long to organize. It’s taken months and I hate lying to her. It’s been killing me.”

Houston, we have a problem. What to do about Amanda. I wanted to make her feel better. I knew how miserable she was feeling and didn’t want to prolong  her agony for another second. On the other hand, I’d already shown her the footage, I’d taken, of Mel hugging her husband. Oh poo, what a to-do.

MarcieD finished her set and headed over to us. I sheepishly told her our tale of woe, after buying her a sorry-I-yelled-during-your-song drink.

When she finished bouncing her deep laughter, also sonorous, off all the walls, she did have the decency to cringe.

“How long is it for now?”

“Just a few days. I take her away on Friday evening and we come back Sunday teatime. Feels like forever though. How am I going to do this when she thinks I’m cheating on her?” He put his head in his hands, once more and we all dived in to pat him vigorously. Poor chap – in angst and being beaten to death.

“Damage limitation,” said MarcieD. “Tracey, you tell Amanda that he was morally upstanding and Hot Toddy couldn’t make him stick to her at all, however much honey she oozed. You,” she fixed her glare on him,” need to stop worrying, as that’s not helping anything.”

He looked sheepish, then at his feet, then in his drink then at us three.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced. “All this was supposed to be for Amanda and I’ve made it all about me and now I’ve upset her. Oh, God, I really didn’t mean to. I’ll take her a lovely bunch of flowers home.

Orange Flowers in Silver Vase                                          ©Tracey Edges

“NO!” said MarcieD. “Do NOT go over the top or she’ll just wonder even more. Just be normally nice. Will you have to communicate any more with the production crew?”

“No. That’s it now. Giving the keys to Mel, was the last thing I really needed to do. We’re completing on the new house on Friday, Amanda thinks it’s all happening on Monday, but the crew will pick up the new house keys then, from the Estate Agents.”

“Good,” I said. “So no more texts, phone calls, nipping out. That will help. Does Amanda know she’s going away?”

“Yes, but she thinks we’re going to her sister’s. Just as a breather before next week. It’s her sister’s birthday on Sunday so that made me able to persuade her. The Television Company have actually paid for a lovely Country House Hotel, that part was going to be the surprise.” He looked crestfallen as it sunk in how dreadfully wrong it had all gone.

“Don’t worry you’ve got Grimsby’s answer to Charlie’s Angels on your side.” We all assumed a pose from the film poster. It was so smooth and slick you’d have thought we’d done it before. Oh, ok, maybe we had. He laughed.

“That’s better,” I smiled at him. “I’ll ring Amanda in a minute tell her the good news re Hot Toddy. We can’t really do anything about the Mel incident, except not mention it. Thank goodness she didn’t recognise her. Work on being as normally nice as you possibly can tonight and tomorrow. When you get to the hotel tomorrow evening you can blame any subterfuge on arranging that ‘romantic’ surprise for her and hopefully she will believe you. Make up something about it being complicated because you had some vouchers, or something, and they kept ringing you to sort it out. That should at least make her wonder if she was wrong. Flowers, and Champagne, in the room, there, may be a good idea though. Oh, and explain all to her sister and have her in on the surprise so she can laugh at any suspicions Amanda may confide to her. I think that’s covered everything. Good luck!”

Sunday teatime Hot Toddy, MarcieD and I were in the semi-circle mass of people surrounding the camera crew filming Amanda and, erm, Mr Blackwell’s house. I hadn’t realised that she hadn’t ever said his name. It was all ‘my husband’, either owning the connection or spitting it out.

Amanda loved the surprise. Even the somewhat dodgy wallpapers used. I think she loved the relief even more. Her sooty eyes, once again stood up to the tears. Thankfully, these were happier ones and thankfully she gave Mel the used tissues.

Mel, ever the consummate professional, managed to keep her didn’t-we-do-well, whiter-than-white smile.