---

SNAFU Part 27

by Angharad

This is a work of fiction any resemblance to anyone alive or dead is unintentional.

*****

For the next few days, things went as expected. There were no more attacks, so I could concentrate on cleaning up my room and doing some study for my course. In the coming weeks we would be doing some more practical nursing, which meant being on the wards.

The analysis of the gunge from my room, was inconclusive. In other words, they didn’t know. To be honest neither did I, and I helped create it. The Army, through Sheila, managed to divert the attention of the fire brigade away from the incident, and it quickly became history for everyone but Sheila and me.

Me especially, because it took me days to clean it all up. I had to hire one of those steam cleaning things for the carpets, and it took lots of detergent and elbow grease to do the walls. Sharon helped, as did one of the other girls, but most of the rest kept their distance. I was already seen as different, made worse by the medal awards, now I was being seen as weird. The ‘Spooky’ epithet which had occurred at the hospital was happening again.

To be honest, I was too busy or tired to take much notice, but Sharon took one or two to task in no uncertain terms. It happened, the weekend before the dinner at Number Ten.

I had just brought my dress uniform back from the cleaners, and was moaning that I had to sew the medal ribbons on. It was no big deal, I was good at sewing, and much of the time enjoyed it. It was a link with my gran. This day however, I had lots of other things to do. I was also a bit cross at the cost of my cleaning bill, which had exceeded my expectations based on the verbal estimate given at the time of putting the garments in.

It was only my uniform and my blue outfit from the officer’s mess dinner, which had got slimed later that night. Sounds like Ghostbusters, I know, but it was less spectacular than the film, and just a tad more dangerous. That thing was trying it’s best to kill me after all, and I didn’t have a nuclear whatever it was, they had in the film. I had to use my own skills. That creature had very little resemblance to Sigourney Weaver funnily enough, and Dan Ackroyd was noticeable by his absence, not to mention the others.

Back to the weekend, enter Sharon and me. “That bloody cleaners, they charged me an arm and a leg for my uniform and I still have to sew the ribbons on it.”

“Hark at the ‘Iron Lady’,” said one of the girls sat in the common room, through which we were walking.

“What you mean as in ‘Iron Duke’ or Joan of Arc?” said another voice.

“Wouldn’t it be the Iron Duchess anyway?” said another.

“Lion Duchess,” said the first and they all laughed.

“Oh very bleedin’ funny,” commented Sharon, “why don’t you all shut yer gobs an’ leave Jamie alone.”

The original detractor, a tall girl called Tracie something, with whom I have never seen eye to eye, stood up and said accusingly to Sharon, “If she needs you to defend her, how come it was her who got the medals?”

I tried to leave the confrontation and take Sharon with me, by saying, “Come on, Sharon, just ignore them.”

“Not bleedin’ likely,” she then gently pushed me away. “Look ‘ere little miss know it all, I ‘appened to be wiv Jamie on bof occasions wot she got the medals fower. You weren’t. She saved my life for certain on one of ‘em, possible on bof of ‘em. So don’t go talking about nuffin’ you know nuffin abaht.”

At this point, the girl retorted with something I didn’t hear, but Sharon did and it was only by luck that I saw them squaring up to fight, and managed to drag Sharon away, Tracie being pulled away by her friends.

Sharon was still spitting feathers when we got to my room, where I managed to calm her down with a cuppa.

I was hanging up my blue dress, and about to sew on the medal ribbons, when Sharon displayed she knew a bit more about my recent activities than I realised.
“Why don’t yer send on of yer lions around to vem, when vey’s in bed. Vat would shake ‘em up a bit.” She chuckled as she said it.

I gave her a vexed look. “What are you suggesting?”

“Scare the shite aht of ‘em, wiv one of yer pussy cats.”

“I can’t do things like that.”

“I fought yer could. Vat’s wot vey’re saying.”

“Just what are they saying?” I asked, knowing full well the sort of distortion that was likely with the grape vine.

“Vis fing the uvver night, wiv the flash ‘n bang, wot left the shit all over the place. Vey say it was of yer magic creatures wot went wrong. Vey fink yer some sorta witch.”

“Like Harry Potter?”

“Yeah, like ‘Arry Pottah.”

“I’m not. Even if I was, I wouldn’t be allowed to use magic to settle old scores. Which is what sending a ‘pussy cat’, as you put it, around would be. It wouldn’t be worthy of the power.”

“So you ‘ave some powers ven?”

“You know I do, you’ve seen the lionesses at least once.”

“Yeah, in Basra.”

“There’s one behind you now.”

“Like in panto. Look behind you! I’m ain’t fallin’ fower vat old joke.”

“Suit yourself,” I said.

At this point some loud purring began, and Sharon paled and turned around very slowly. She was shaking very slightly, and said in a quiet voice, “Nice pussy cat.” The lioness, purred some more and walked towards her.

“Bleedin’ ‘ell, wot do I do now?”

“Give it a saucer of milk?” I suggested helpfully.

“Oh shit, I’ve wet meself,” said Sharon.

“It’s okay, she can’t hurt you. Stroke her head if you like.”

She gingerly leant forward and touched the lioness. Then feeling braver began to stroke it with gusto. The lioness responded by sitting down and purring just like a giant moggie.

“Vat’s amazin’. ‘Ow did it get ‘ere?”

“You called it up.”

“I did. ‘Ow did I do vat?”

“You started talking about my lionesses and it made me think of them, and as thought forms, they just appeared.”

“Wot, just like vat?” I nodded and she laughed. “So it ain’t real ven?”

“Not in a literal sense, like lions on the plains of Africa or even in a zoo. But your mind is seeing and feeling them as real, and makes everything else fall into place accordingly.”

“Ooh, stoppid.” She laughed, as the lioness appeared to lick her hand. “Yer tongue is rough.”

“So if I’d said lions in va lounge, vey’ed ‘ave appeared?”

“No. I’d have stopped it.”

“Spoilsport. Can I borrow ‘er fower a few minutes?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, if you have in mind what I think you do.”

“Yer muvver’s a bleedin’ spoilsport. Yer wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad to eat ‘em all.” She said to the lioness.

“Come on Sheba, time to go. Say goodbye to Sharon.” In a moment of pure devilment I imagined the lioness offering her paw to Sharon and saying in a throaty sort of purr, “Goodbye old girl, nice to meet you.”

Of course it happened, and Sharon became almost hysterical with laughter. She wet herself again. There’d have been less mess if I’d let the lioness eat her.

As you can see, I did manage some fun in between fighting off the wicked whatevers and saving the world. I also managed to sew on my ribbons, which would mark me out as different to the educated military eye.

The next thing was going to be a trip to London, and to Downing Street in particular. At least the army laid on a car, and we were to be taken in an official limo from the nurses home all the way and back. The car was a Jaguar, leather seats and walnut dash. Very nice. The driver was a young woman, who was in seeming awe of us. I tried to escape the conversation, but as the subject of some of it, it was difficult.

Her awe may have been misplaced, but her driving skills were excellent. The car was comfortable and had I not been dreading the end product of our drive, might even have enjoyed it.

Sheila and Sharon did their level best to improve my mood, but the fears would not lift. I was to be a guest of honour at a dinner with the Prime Minister. As I don’t do these things, normally, or any other way come to think of it, I feel terrified. These aren’t my sort of people, they are the shapers and movers, they make things happen through others. I do my own dirty work, and in doing so get my hands dirty. These types, the power crowd, rarely get dirt under their nails. They use other’s hands.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like or dislike them, I don’t know them and thus have not formed an opinion. Normally, our paths would never cross. Today, they will and I was apprehensive with a capital ‘A’.

I wore my medals, which made feel very conspicuous, two bits of metal on ribbons which marked me out from the common herd. I was different enough without need to have a label on my chest saying so.

I looked across at Sheila, she wore her medals too. She had about half a dozen, but they were less conspicuous than my two. They were smaller somehow and less showy. Or were they? I suppose not really, I’m just sensitive.

My parents have a picture of me receiving them from Princess Anne, the Princess Royal. They are very proud of it, but I cringe each time I see it. Why? I don’t know, I just don’t like the attention.

I flitted in and out of the conversation, the others were having. Did I think George Clooney should be the next James Bond? I didn’t care one way or another, but if he was, I wouldn’t mind being a ‘Bond-girl’, and I said so. The others laughed and it broke the tension I was feeling a little.

An hour later and we stopped at the motorway services for a toilet break. Ever since the one where I had dealt with the aftermath of the accident, I disliked these places. They are impersonal, ugly selling crap food at extortionate prices. I thought it was probably the least attractive place to die I could think of, my mind went back to the incident and I gave a shudder. Sheila noticed and gave me a supportive smile. She had picked up on my thoughts.

The four of us strolled into the toilet area. I had removed my medals and put them in my pocket. Sheila had noticed this too and asked me where they were. I patted my pocket. “A bit overdressed for ‘Welcome Inn’.” I said and she smiled.

“Look out the cavalry’s arrived,” said one denim clad youth to his friend. “They’re all lookers, they can come and rescue me anytime,” commented his friend in response. I blushed, and the first youth winked at me. “All right darlin’?” he said, “wanna come on manoeuvres with me?”

I ignored him but Sharon nudged me as we entered the ladies, “Fink you coulda scored vere allwight.” The other two women, chuckled and I blushed some more.
Afterwards in the queue for some drinks, I spotted a group of middle eastern looking men a few places ahead of us. They hadn’t seen us, until they heard Sharon say something uncomplimentary about the price of a cake, to the girl serving the teas. Then the group ahead reacted to the uniforms.

I was trying to concentrate on the queue and finding some change in my purse for the tea I was buying, but something about the way the energy changed made me very uncomfortable.

It’s hard to say what I felt, except it was extreme negativity, like a cold and biting wind emanating from them. It hadn’t been there until they saw us, and it was definitely us it was aimed at.

I tried to reason it out. Perhaps they don’t like uniforms, or soldiers. Could they have relations in the middle east who have suffered from the recent wars there, so called ‘collateral damage’? Any of these were possible, and reasonable. So why did I keep getting this sense of extreme malice? I felt almost as if they were eyeing up a target. I tried to dismiss it. Too many memories stirred up by the medals, but it wouldn’t go away.

We sat at a table across the room from the five men. They were in agitated conversation and kept throwing glances at us. Sharon was in good spirits as was Pattie, our driver. Sheila, like me was a little tense. She leaned over to me, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t like the look of those men. There’s something not very nice about them? Their energies are very nasty.”

“I think I know what you mean. Perhaps we’d better go.” I nodded my response. Sheila leant across the table and said quietly, “Get ready to leave in a moment.”
Sharon was about to ask why in a loud voice, when Sheila’s look silenced her. “I’m probably overreacting, but I don’t like the look of those fellows over there.”

“Trouble?” asked Pattie.

“More a feeling, but be ready just in case. Try to act natural, I’m probably wrong.”
We all rose up, Sharon pretending to clown as she usually did. Sheila and I feeling the eyes burning into our backs as we left. Going through the door, I noticed they were also leaving. “Oh shit,” I thought. “We could have company.” I hissed.

We walked briskly back towards the car, “Do you mind if I sit in the front this time?” I asked. Sharon, who’d been there until now, shook her head. As we got in our car, a quick glance showed the group of men had reached theirs. They must have run. It was a black Mercedes.

Pattie gunned our Jaguar out of the car park and on to the motor way, she put her foot down and the acceleration was amazing, we were now doing ninety and a glance to the courtesy mirror, showed we had company, the black merc was accelerating too.

We slowed down, they slowed down. We speeded up, so did they. Subtle, they were not. “I think we need to call up some help,” said our driver. I agreed and so did Sheila.

Pattie picked up the car phone, she speed dialled and placed it on handsfree. A woman’s voice responded. “Hi yes, this is driver P Boyd, in car number tango delta seven five.”

“Go ahead tango delta.”

“I’m on the M1 heading towards London and I think we’ve picked up some hostiles.”

“Please repeat.”

She did, twice. Eventually the operator put her through to the military police. She explained what was happening, with the Mercedes shadowing our speed. We passed a road sign enabling us to say exactly where we were. The voice on the other end was sufficiently concerned to agree to pull them.

Effectively, what this meant was we would turn off the motorway onto a quieter road, if the car followed, the local police would deal with it. They would pull them over and if necessary arrest them.

We were given instructions, and the police operator would stay in contact with us. We turned off the M1, the car followed. The tension in our car was unbelievable. The road was a dual carriageway, and we were heading towards Luton. Suddenly, the Mercedes accelerated and drawing level, a window opened and a hand moved behind it.

“Jesus, Pattie, he’s got a gun,” cried Sheila. The first shot, hit the driver’s window shattering it, it exited through my window. I felt amazingly calm, aware of the noise and the wind which was blowing through the car like a gale.

Pattie braked hard, and the Mercedes overshot us, but two more bullets hit our car, taking out the windscreen. The Mercedes, then sped off. We came to a stop on the roadside.

“What’s happening?” came the voice over the carphone.

“We’ve been shot up. No one hurt.”

“Get out of the vehicle, stay near. Help is on its way.”

“Watch out he’s coming back.” I yelled and we all ducked as low as we could as further shots were fired by the car passing us on the other carriageway. I knew he was going to turn at the roundabout and come back. We had about two minutes.
Everyone scrambled out of the car, other cars were stopping, and I tried to wave them on. The other girls ran away from the car towards some trees. I opened the boot of the car and pulled out the wheel brace and a heavy spanner I found there.
Cars were still stopping to help and I frantically tried to wave them away. The Mercedes came back for another pass at us and as it did I threw the wheel brace and spanner in front of it. They both hit the windscreen, and I hope cracked it badly. The car stopped and one of them got out. He pointed a gun at me and someone screamed. I waited for the impact of the bullet.

Time seemed to stop, and I stood wondering what it would feel like to be shot. Would I die? It was better than a motorway services car park, just. I had called for help and I saw a lioness rushing towards him, would it be in time. I wondered who else would see it.

Then as I braced myself for the impact, a car speeding towards us did a handbrake skid hitting both the gunman and his car. He was knocked sideways over the top of our car, he rolled as he hit the ground still with the gun.

I somersaulted at him grabbing his arm as I landed on top of him. In the struggle which ensued, he somehow shot himself. He ceased to take any further part in our battle.

The car which had hit him was an unmarked police car. The two officers were dazed but unhurt. The occupants of the other car, well three of them were running towards my colleagues.

I picked up the gun and ran after them, checking the magazine in the Smith and Wesson as I ran. It had five more rounds in it. Despite my skirt I was gaining on them. I shouted, “Scatter”, which my friends did. One of the attackers stopped to deal with me.

He hurriedly fired at me, the bullet went well wide of its mark. He aimed his gun again. It was the last thing he did. I dropped and fired two rounds into his chest. I knew he was dead before he hit the ground, I saw his soul leave his body and guess what the lioness did?

I picked up his gun, and ran after the others, there were now two lionesses in the hunt, three if you count me. One of the men obviously saw one of my pets and began shooting at it. It’s difficult to stop a thought form with lead, so it just kept gaining on him. So did I.

At the last minute he saw me. It was his last minute. Make that, last second. He pointed his gun at me and I dropped and fired twice again. One of the shots hit his face and he fell as hit by a truck, his feet lifting off the ground as the impact of the shot hit his head.

Two down, one to go. The third attacker decided that discretion was the finer part of valour, and legged it. By now, the police helicopter was overhead and the air was filled with sirens screaming from all directions. I ran towards my colleagues.
The police took care of the third man, a marksman wounding him when he fired on the helicopter. I surrendered the weapons I had picked up and used, to the police. I knew there would be lots of paperwork, as we were assisted into the back of a police car. Then the happy thought, “If I’m helping the police with their enquiries, then I can’t be in London being ogled by the Prime Minister and his cronies.”

In the local police headquarters, we were questioned separately. I gave my name and rank (ha ha), my home address, and destination. At first they laughed when I said, “10 Downing Street.” They thought I was being funny, but it was true. Attitudes seemed to change after that. “Let me get this straight Miss, you were on your way to see the PM when these guys attacked you?”

“Yes, they were giving us funny looks at the services, and they followed us. We were in contact with the police by phone and they instructed us to turn off the motorway, to set up a trap. Instead the men in the Mercedes, decided to up the ante, and began firing at us.

Pattie, our driver did really well to stop the car safely, while under fire. We evacuated the car and ran for it. I tried to stop the Mercedes from escaping unscathed, so I lobbed some tools at its windscreen. One of the men jumped out and was about to shoot me, when your colleagues arrived and stopped him, by sliding their car into him.

He was still waving the gun around on the floor, so I had to act. I tried to take it off him and he was shot in the ensuing struggle. I hope your colleagues can verify this. I took his gun and pursued the other men who seemed intent on hurting my colleagues.

One of these pursuers stopped to shoot at me, and I shot him twice. I went after the others, taking his gun as well. Another of them went to fire at me and I got him with a lucky shot, in the head I think.

The last man absconded, and was hit by one of your marksmen I think. The police from the damaged car caught up with me, whereupon I surrendered my weapons. That’s it, I think.”

The two officers, a man and a woman, opposite me nodded. Then the man held my medals in a sealed plastic bag. “Are these yours, Miss?”

“Yes. I was searched upon being brought here, and those were removed from my pocket.”

“Fancy things aren’t they?” he said, examining them through the bag.

“I have mixed feelings about them.”

“What are they?”

“A DCM and a George Medal.”

As I said this I saw him pale a little, and look at his colleague. “You’re that nurse who got these from the Princess Royal, at Barbury.”

“Fraid so.”

“For doing something like this afternoon, killing people.” He shook his head, “I thought nurses were supposed to save life, not take it.”

“I said I had mixed feelings about them. I have now shot and killed seven people. I would have preferred not to have hurt any of them. In each case, I was fired on first, like today.”

“You’ve killed seven people? How do you sleep at night?” said the copper shaking his head.

“I think that’s my business. But I could add, that had your bloody whirlybird been a bit quicker, none of this might have happened. I was forced to act in self defence, having done all of the things required of me while in contact with the police. You were told as soon as we knew we were being followed. Don’t judge me until you know exactly what happened.”

“I suppose they’ll give you another fucking medal, will they?”

“I hope your recorder picked that last statement up. I believe you either have to charge me or release me. Either way, I should like to call my solicitor and the Prime Minister’s office, to apologise for missing his dinner.”

At this moment a senior plod entered and my two tormentors were told to leave. The man muttered, “psychopath” as he left, to which I retorted “dickless wonder”.

The senior officer, a chief inspector, introduced himself. “Hello, Miss Curtis, I’m Chief Inspector Howse, if you’ve made a statement, I think you can get on to your engagement. “

“Can I take these now?” I said picking up my medals.

“Of course.”

I had noticed that my tights were shredded and I had mud and grass stains on my uniform, together with blood from my first encounter with the gunmen. “Is there somewhere I can clean up?”

“Of course, I’ll get someone to show you.” He led me out into a corridor, called for a young woman PC to take me to the toilets, where I washed myself and tried to sponge some of the blood out of my tunic.

Sheila came and found me. “Hurry Jamie, there’s a chopper waiting for us up the road.”

“Look at me, I’m spattered with blood and mud, my tights have had it and my hair is a mess.”

“Don’t worry, there’s a new uniform on its way, plus tights, and a hairdresser will sort out the rest.”

“What? You mean we’re still going to London?”

“Thanks to you, yes. Thank you for saving my life and those of the others.”

“One of the coppers interviewing me, seemed to think I got a buzz from doing it, from killing people.” I began to cry. “I don’t honestly. It just seems to happen to me.”

“I know,” said Sheila, hugging me as I cried on her shoulder. “It’s the shock, come on let's find that helicopter.”

The next hour was a total blur. We were taken to the chopper and flown to a site in London, where someone was waiting for me with a clean uniform. I washed and changed. My hair and makeup were tidied up by a beautician who was also waiting. Sheila pinned my medals on my chest, and we were led to another Jaguar, which was escorted by police outriders through the London traffic.

We entered Number Ten via some back underground entrance, not by the front door as I expected. I had watched countless VIPs come and go through the black front door, on news bulletins and was a bit disappointed not to do the same.

We were led through a series of security doors and up and down corridors until finally, we were taken into a small office to be met by some official in a dinner suit. He introduced himself and took our names, which he checked against some list.
“Please come with me. You’re a little late, but we were aware of that. Don’t worry, they’re all waiting for you.”

We were led through a pair of double mahogany doors into a large room in which sat dozens of people at a long dinner table. At our entry, the assembled throng rose and applauded us as we walked to the table and were shown our places. I was hot and bothered, blushing profusely and feeling very sick.

I was seated two chairs down from the PM, “Oh shit,” I thought. Everyone except him sat down.

“Honoured guests, we have been slightly delayed from starting this meal, waiting for our guests of honour, one of whom is one of the most decorated women soldiers in history. On her way here today, her car was attacked by terrorists, details of which attack I am still awaiting. I am led to believe that our guest of honour, young nurse Curtis, single-handedly dealt with three of the attackers, saving the lives of her colleagues, the attending police and members of the public. I salute her courage.”

He started to clap and next thing, everyone was standing and applauding me, again. I sat looking at the table, blushing and with the odd tear dripping down my face. I didn’t want to be there, one bit.

The evening was also something of a blur, I did speak with the Prime Minister who shook my hand warmly after the meal had finished and we retired to a second room for drinks and coffee.

I don’t recall what I said or what he said, or what I said to several other folk who came and spoke to me. I was tired and in a state of shock. I remember Sheila talking with him, and of a group around Sharon as she described the afternoon’s events and my part in them. I suspect she embroidered them somewhat, but I was past caring and two brandies later had nodded off to sleep in an arm chair.

I can’t recall the meal, I have a menu, signed by half the assembled throng, so I can report what was put on my plate, except I ate very little, my appetite is inversely proportional to my stress level.

So much of my recall is based upon those of my friends. I do recollect speaking about the courage of our driver and hoping it would be recognised. The PM assured me he would speak to her CO. I also asked him, that I should receive no further bits of metal for the afternoon’s activities. He declined to answer that one.

Sharon enjoyed herself, and Sheila was suitably impressed with both the Prime Minister and his official residence. She was given a quick tour of the public rooms while I snored in the armchair.

We were put up at a nearby hotel, which had a name associated with the county town of Dorset. The silk nightdress I was loaned was so soft, it was dreamy. I slept like a log. The next day, we were taken to the station and returned home by train. That journey was uneventful, for which I am extremely grateful. Would that we had gone by train in the first place.

I now had an inquest to attend, plus an internal enquiry courtesy of the army. I really wanted out. I should have gone for dismissal on medical grounds, months before, instead of which, I had another set of exams looming plus the aforementioned official proceedings to deal with. I felt very stressed and not a little unhappy.

Despite that, I wrote a short note to the PM thanking him for his hospitality and apologising for nodding off. Two days later, I received a personal letter back from him, thanking me for attending despite the rigours of the day. He hoped I would agree to attend Chequers for a weekend next month, as he had a favour to ask me.
I nearly fainted when I read his letter. Sheila however, was beside herself with joy. “He likes you, young lady. You could do quite well out of this if you play your cards right.”

“What d’you mean?” I asked naively.

“I suspect your military career could get quite a boost from this.”

“But I don’t want a military career. I’ve been in the bloody army just over a year and I’ve killed seven people. At this rate, by the time I’ve done my national service, I’ll be a fully qualified mass murderer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Jamie. I have told you before that you are special. Use that specialness to help others, but also enjoy it for yourself. You deserve it.”

Whatever she was on about had passed me by, I knew I had some useful gifts which had saved my bacon as well as those of some of my friends. I had also tried to take my own life twice and it had been interrupted, so obviously I was meant to live a bit longer.

I tried to deal with all this stuff simply by accepting it fatalistically. I was where I was because I needed to be there. If there was a purpose, it wasn’t clear, leastways, not yet.

I had another week of playing nurses, then a week’s holiday at home. The relief of being in my own bed, of seeing my parents and neighbours. Of cycling again, was wonderfully restorative.

Thankfully, there were no more visitations from who or whatever it was that wanted me dead. Was no news good news, or the lull before the storm? I would doubtless find out sometime.

Despite my protests, my mother insisted on buying me some new togs for my bash at Chequers. This is a large country house, the official holiday home of the PM, where he entertains ambassadors and visiting foreign dignitaries. So what on earth was I going to be doing there? I was terrified.

It wasn’t just about thinking which knife goes with which fork, or slurping my soup but, what do you say to the most powerful man in the country? Who else is going to be there? What do I wear? Oh shit. I really wish I wasn’t going.

Mum bought me two dresses which could double as very smart cocktail or evening dresses. One was a lovely grey and turquoise mixture, the other a vibrant red. I was unsure of the latter, but she pooh-poohed my objections. We bought new shoes and bags for each, then, smart casual stuff, a skirt and top, trousers and top, new bras, new nighties. It was like Christmas come early. We argued, we always do about clothes and her profligacy in buying them on the slightest pretext. Her complaining that she had missed out on having a daughter earlier on, so it was her treat. When she gets in that mode, I stop arguing, it only makes things worse.

As for jewellery, I had some nice things already and won that part of the rubber, mainly by asking dad to get my pearls out of the bank. They were now insured for lots of money, so he agreed.

Another week in work and it became time to travel south again, this time to Chequers.