LITMIR.BIZ

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I wouldn’t mind walking the alsatian past her chalet. You could do yourself a bit of alright there.”

      “Yeah. Talking of doing things, what do you want me to do now?”

      “Well, I’ll show you where you’re going to live if you’ll excuse the exaggeration, and then you can help to get ready for the Swanee River Ramble.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Bingo in funny hats. Everything in this place revolves around Bingo. It’s the second most popular activity. You just have to keep on thinking up new names for it, that’s all. You know, I fancy that bird. Do you know what her name is?”

      “Janet.”

      “Right. I think I’ll pop over and introduce myself. That is, if you don’t have any objections?”

      “No, of course not.”

      In fact, I am very grateful. I fancy that Ted is just what Janet is looking for.

      An hour later I have unpacked and been issued with my blazer with a big red heart on the breast pocket. I feel a right ponce but there is no doubt that Ted is right when he talks about the bird-pulling potential. Frippet that was ignoring me in the cafeteria is now giving me the Georgie Best treatment and I begin to wonder how long I can hold out before I hole out.

      I am soon to find out because when I report to the Happydrome, the tables in the entertainment hall are littered with birds knocking back rum and cokes and brandy and Babycham like it was water. In fact, I have been led to believe by Ted that a good bit of it is water. The chief steward is apparently known as Nero and waters the booze like it was flowers. “I had a Drambuie the other night that tasted like bloody liquorice, water,” moaned Ted. “I could have mixed myself a stronger drink from a packet of sherbet.”

      Neverthless, sheer volume of intake seems to produce the desired effect and by the time the Bingo caller, wearing false moustache, bowler hat and fancy waistcoat gets into his stride, most of those present are, to put it mildly, in a fairly relaxed condition. Attempts to capture the Swanee River mood vary from tennis visors and sleeve garters to low cut frilly dresses and beauty spots – mostly the ones revealed by the low-cut frilly dresses. Only the mums and dads sit there in their sensible cardigans and floral prints, unmoved by the frivolity of dress about them.

      I pass amongst the tables asking people if they are having a good time and indulging in what light banter finds its way into my mind. There is no sign of Janet and I imagine that she is grooving in the Stardust Disco or perhaps revelling in the up tempo music of Freddy Newbold and his Startimers.

      It is in this way that I come upon Avril who is flashing a lovely pair of knockers that look as if they are trying to climb out of her dress. As I draw near her table, she crosses her legs and reveals a pair of matching thighs, one of which is adorned with a black garter with a rose attached to it.

      “Been picking flowers, have you?” I say, which is an indication of the standard of repartee I have been indulging in.

      “Yes, do you like it?” Her eyes work over me fast like a farmer weighing up meat at a fat-stock auction.

      “I like the whole costume. You stand a good chance of a prize.”

      “Ooh, did you hear that, ’Reen?”

      ’Reen is thin and mousey and the kind of bird you go on holiday with because she makes you look so attractive. She is also giving me an eye-bashing.

      “Yeah. Perhaps he can pull a few strings if you make it worth his while.”

      “Ooh, you cheeky thing. Did you hear what she said, Timmy?”

      Identifying me is no problem because my name has been lettered onto the heart on my breast pocket.

      “I’m not a judge, so there’s nothing I can do,” I simper.

      “Couldn’t you give her a consolation prize?” says ’Reen.

      “What do you suggest?”

      “Ooh, well, I don’t know about that. What do you think, Avril?”

      They both collapse into fits of giggles and it is all I can do to hold a smile on my mug. Avril is definitely a looker, though, and she has been in the sun because I can see a thin white line across her breasts where they edge over the top of her bra. If it was not for ’Reen and the warnings from Sid and Francis, I would be breaking over her like a tidal wave.

      “Well, I’ll come back if I think of something,” I say, showing how persistently unfunny I can be when I really try. I deliver another dollop of warm, friendly smile and move on to the next table where a woman terrifies me by leaping to her feet and shouting “Bingo” just as I am about to open my mouth in greeting. It is obviously the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to her because she flings her arms round my neck and nearly hugs the life out of me to the accompaniment of shouts of “Watch it, Bertha!” “There’s no holding her when she’s had a few” “Save some for me!” and the like.

      With so much good cheer about I have obviously got to join the party for a drink and in no time at all I am well on the way to being pissed. In this condition, I applaud loudly when the results of the fancy dress competition are announced and Avril wins a prize. More bingo follows and then Holiday Host Billington entertains us with his accordion, one foot resting sensually on a convenient chair. Such all-time favourites as “Roll Out the Barrel”, “Goodnight Irene” and “My Old Man’s a Dustman” find everyone in good voice and I am perilously near enjoying myself when I feel a light kiss on the cheek. I turn round expecting to discover Janet has devoured Ted and come in search of fresh prey, but instead find my nose wedged between a couple of Bristols that could only belong to Avril – or three other birds packed one on top of the other.

      “I just thought I’d give you a little kiss to say thank you,” she says. “I’m so happy. It’s the first time I’ve ever won anything.”

      “It wasn’t anything to do with me,” I mumble. “What did you get, anyway, I can’t remember?”

      “I got an L.P. voucher. I’m never going to cash it, though. I’ll always keep it.”

      “Why not get a record and keep that?”

      “No, it wouldn’t be the same. My kid brother would borrow it and I’d never see it again.”

      “Yes, you’ve got a point there.”

      “Yes.”

      “Yes.”

      It’s not the kind of stuff to give Sir Terence Rattigan sleepless nights, is it? But I don’t have to dig any deeper into my fund of small talk because Avril lowers her boobs and starts to tell me her problem.

      “Do you know anything about electricity?”

      “Not much,” I say, sensing that my powers of self-control are about to be tested.

      “I’m certain it’s only a little thing, but the bedside light in our chalet keeps flickering.”

      “Probably the wires in the socket have worked loose.”

      Avril looks at me as if I have just discovered penicillin.

      “Do you think that’s it? Is it difficult to fix?”

      “No, it’ll only take a couple of minutes with a screwdriver.”

      Avril’s breasts jut out in such a fashion that the pendant she is wearing, thwarted in its attempt to hang beween them, rests on top, much as it would do on the palm of your hand. Little things like that mean a lot to a man.

      “Would you like me to take a look at it?” I mean, it can’t do any harm, can it? ’Reen will be there and it is part of my job to cope with this kind of thing. I am certain Mr. Francis would approve. And Sid? Yes, I think I know what Sid would do in this situation.

      “Oh, would you? You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”

      “No

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