LITMIR.BIZ

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balls into it. I would have chosen one that was not half full of orange juice, myself, but I have noticed before that Sid is inclined to get flustered when Rosie starts having a go at him.

      ‘Mind what you’re doing, you great pillock!’ It is sad to hear Rosie talking like that. I can remember the time when she used to think that the sun went in every time Sid zipped up his fly.

      ‘Belt up, slug nipples!’ It is clear that feelings are running high and I am not sorry when there is a sharp rat-tat-tat on the front door.

      ‘I’ll get it,’ I say.

      The sound of battle is still ringing in my lugholes as I swing open the door and find myself staring at the back of the postman’s head.

      ‘Hello, darling,’ he says, giving my left nipple a playful tweak. ‘Look at those naughty doggies. I wouldn’t mind having a bit of that, would you?’

      ‘Why don’t you ask one of them?’ I say.

      The bloke whips round and turns an interesting shade of scarlet. ‘Oh yes-er. Recorded delivery,’ he says, shoving a pencil stub and a piece of paper into my hand. ‘Sign here.’ He looks me up and down questioningly. ‘Are you an au pair boy?’

      The sooner I get out of this tunic the better. It does make me look like a blooming waiter. ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘You’re the commandant of the Boys’ Brigade, aren’t you?’

      ‘Watch it!’ The bloke is swift to take umbrage.

      ‘You want to watch your hands, and all!’ I take the letter and close the door firmly in his face. Honestly, I don’t know what public servants are coming to these days. It makes me glad that I still have his pencil.

      ‘What is it?’ says Sid, as I go into the room. ‘Another bleeding bill?’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘It’s got a French stamp on it.’

      ‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ says Sid. ‘Now we’re in the Common Market I’m probably paying French taxes. Give it here!’ He wrenches it open and I watch his lips begin to move as he tries to get his mouth round the words. I wonder who could be writing to Sid from France? ‘Blimey!’

      I don’t know if you have ever seen a bloke’s face turn ashen but that is what happens to Sid’s mug. All the colour drains out of it.

      ‘What’s the matter, Sid?’

      ‘They can’t do it!’

      He lets the letter flutter to the ground and I pick it up. The notepaper crackles like a new fiver and is headed ‘Villa Splendide, Cap des Riches, Cote d’Azur’. I look down the bottom of the letter and it is signed ‘Plantagenet Rightberk’. It is not an easy letter to understand, but basically the meaning is clear: Sid is out on his ear.

      ‘Just when I was coming to grips with my slice,’ he whines. ‘It’s tragic.’

      ‘Don’t take it too hard, Sid,’ I say. ‘They are offering you a golden handshake.’

      ‘Golden handshake?’ Sid’s features crumple up like a sheet of baking foil. ‘It’s more like a clip round the lughole with a piece of lead piping! Taking inflation into account, it’s less than what I put into the business.’

      ‘You haven’t made a mess of it again, have you?’ says Rosie speaking my mind for me. ‘Really! You’re like a big soft kid. You want to get yourself an accountant and a solicitor if you’re going into business.’

      ‘You can’t trust them,’ snaps Sid. ‘They’ll bleed you dry and take you to the cleaners.’

      ‘At least, that way, they won’t get blood over the machines,’ I say.

      Sid is not amused. ‘Shut up!’ he says. ‘There’s nothing funny about this. Seeing a noble lion dragged down by a pack of jackals is a tragic spectacle.’

      There is much more in this vein followed by threats of legal action, letters to MPs and a bunch of fives up the hooter, but by half past three Sid is off to bullock (bullock’s horn: pawn) his golf clubs and sign on at the Labour. I feel sorry for him, but not so sorry that I offer to break open my piggy bank with my Xmas club. Years of experience suggests to me that it will not be long before Sid comes up with another imaginative and foolproof way of losing money.

      Two evenings later, I am proved correct. We are sitting in the saloon bar of the Highwayman – all the toffs go in the public bar, these days, because they reckon it’s where the locals hang out – and I am allowing the maestro of moan to treat me to a pint and a torrent of ear-bending rabbit about how badly he has been put upon.

      ‘Sometimes, I feel like chucking it all in,’ he says. I can’t help wondering what ‘it’ he is talking about but I don’t say anything. ‘It’s no good belonging to a large organisation in this country. If you’re a boss then you can’t get anyone to work for you and if you’re a worker then the bosses are trying to exploit you all the time. People don’t have any confidence in each other any more.’

      ‘That’s my pint you’re drinking,’ I say.

      Sid puts the glass down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Are you sure?’ he says, suspiciously.

      ‘Positive,’ I say. ‘You know that bloke who went to the karsi?’

      ‘I don’t know him,’ says Sid.

      ‘I thought you must do,’ I said. ‘You’d drunk half his pint before he even stood up.’

      Sid picks up his empty glass, looks round nervously and starts edging down the bench. ‘Big bloke, wasn’t he?’ he says. I nod. ‘Just shows how overwrought I am. I don’t know what I’m doing.’

      ‘I’d better get you another pint to help calm your nerves, hadn’t I?’ I say.

      Sid nods. ‘Ta. I think a Mahatma Ghandi might slip down all right now you make me think of it.’

      ‘Instead of?’ I ask.

      ‘No, as well as. I can’t drink brandy by itself.’

      ‘You poor bastard,’ I say. ‘You really suffer, don’t you?’

      Sid is never swift to detect when one is being sarcastical and he merely nods and starts prospecting for crunched up crisps in the bottom of a discarded packet. I get the drinks in and notice that the big fella has come back from the karsi – you would hope him to, wouldn’t you? – and is looking at Sid and his empty glass with equal interest.

      ‘Ta,’ says Sid when I get back to the table. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking.’

      ‘I’m not certain it suits you,’ I say.

      ‘About what I was talking about earlier,’ says Sid. ‘I reckon the only thing to do is to be your own governor. That way, nobody can let you down or mess you about. You’re responsible for everything that happens.’ A faraway look comes into his eye. ‘You remember what it was like when we were cleaning windows?’

      ‘You mean, all those birds?’

      Sid frowns. ‘I wasn’t referring to that. I was talking about how easy it was.’

      ‘It was pretty easy with the birds,’ I remind him.

      ‘No forms, no taxes, no clocking on, knock off when you like.’

      ‘And who you like,’ I chip in.

      ‘Money isn’t everything. I’ve said that before.’

      ‘You say it every time you’re skint,’ I remind him. ‘There’s two lots of people who never worry about mazuma: those who’ve got so much of it they don’t know what to do with it and those who haven’t got any.’

      ‘Very philatelical,’ says Sid. ‘But, frankly, I’m not interested in what you pick up from those religious programmes

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