Insulated Conductor Back on my own manor, I sometimes have a word with myself about it and cringe. I mean it wasn't exactly emigrating, just a temporary change of scene. A short shufti at how the other half earns a crust that's all. And I have to tell you there's some really weird people out there. I used to do a scam down Pettycoat Lane, nothing leery. You know, the bloke who shouts things like "Not thirty quid, not twenty-five, not even twenty..." - that old Jackson Pollocks. I sold iffy gear from the back of a van with the engine running, before I found an up-market patch off Oxford Street. Don't get me wrong, I'm not holding my hands up and saying it's a mug's game, I've joined the Jehovah's, or any such pony and trap, I'm just saying. You know how the media rabbit on about the Old Bill being bent? Do me a favour! Take corruption out of the filth and you might as well make London a no-go area. It's about knowing the enemy, being one move ahead; trust me. That's how I cottoned on to gorgeous Gina's nifty little earner. The law was having a laugh, giving me grief. They were doing a purge on enterprising street sellers like me. All those clueless but unbribable, smart-ass Hendon Police College graduates, cleaning up the West End in time for their vegetarian lunch. It was doing my head in. Feeling the heat, I went to ground by joining London Transport: just by way of keeping my nose clean for a while, you understand. Now, if you think churning out phony designer tat in a Whitechapel sweatshop might be boring, then try driving a London bus. You start on the old Routemasters, where a conductor collects the fares, then graduate to the newer Titans and such that are one-person-operated. I didn't quite make it as a driver. I have this thing about roads you see; I get hypnotised by the boring yellow lines along the kerb and don't notice obvious landmarks like bus stops and queues of punters. The low bridge incident all but finished me. But you have to hand it to LT; they know how to suss a worker's hidden talents. They let me be a conductor for a while, issuing tickets, handling money even. It was the old Gibson ticket machine then, where you crank a handle and a paper voucher comes out. Pretty basic stuff, but tealeaf proof - well just about. I had one or two little fiddles going too, selling dodgy gear in the rest room, that kinda thing, but they ran a pretty tight ship. Using the 'set a thief' principle, management marked my card and made me up to Revenue Inspector. It goes without saying I was good at it, I just had to use lateral thinking, my speciality you might say. And it amazed me how thick those fare dodgers are. I even caught a thirteen-year-old school kid with a staff pass, can you Adam and Eve it? But you can't blame the conductors or the drivers. I mean checking an ID photo, even just to make sure the person is the same sex or colour as the one on the card, isn't Open University and might make a dull day interesting. But you have to think that such devotion to duty can lead to a punch-up, and being a hero is little consolation as you count your remaining teeth. As with the coppers' blitz on West End petty crime, I became a marked man, but the irony escaped me then. I wasn't going soft, just getting carried away with the challenge. In a matter of months I produced so many reports that the paperwork jammed the system. Sure I worked in plain clothes, but on the city's bus routes I was as notorious as the Kray brothers. When they saw me boarding, crowds of passengers would disembark at the next stop. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no boss's man and I have nothing against unions. I realise they're the only resort a worker has against management taking the piss. But in those days they were so strong that if the union said "jump," management would ask "high, long or bungee?" I was rocking the boat, simple as that. But who was getting their knickers in a twist? Probably the Garage admin staff who filed all my reports or maybe my Revenue mates who didn't have my flare for ferreting out fraud. Who knows? Anyway, when the shop steward, who had the build of a bus breakdown-wagon, leaned on me, I knew it was time to have it away on my toes from that billet. While the guvnors argued about my next placement, they gave me a cushy number in personnel as Invigilator, supervising entrance exams for conductors. Believe me, if you can't answer the questions in those tests, even in half the allotted time, well, you shouldn't be allowed out, even in daylight. You'd have to be a right tosser. That's where I met the lovely Laura. One afternoon, after all the other candidates had handed in their questionnaires, I was getting my coat when I noticed this doll, still at her desk. It was already knocking off time, yet, stone the crows, she'd only answered half of the banal questions. But her big brown minces seduced me. Against my better judgement I leaned forward, oggling her cleavage, and whispered the correct answers in her ear. She was hardly going to be London Transport material - even by their slack standards. In writing that was barely legible, she still managed to get two of them wrong. But Laura's lovemaking skills were in a class of their own, on my mother's life. They moved me upstairs after that. My new job title was something they conjured up at short notice and escapes me now, but I was still with Revenue. Sod them, I thought, and argued another pay rise. To put it simply, they wanted me to watch the watchers. Like those conductors whose takings never seemed to square with their hours on duty. In the run up to privatisation the public sector was coming to grips with that alien word 'profit' and the X Files idea of 'worker evaluation' as well. From the heap of stats they buried me under, I selected Gina for my first case study. OK, she looked great, even in the passport size personnel mugshot, but that aside she had, over the year, paid in only about half what was average for a conductor on that route. The challenge had the adrenaline rushing through me like a psyched-up sprinter. She worked the 159s, Thornton Heath to West Hampstead. Based at Streatham Hill Garage, she lived near Tooting Bec Common, which, even then, was quite a classy address. On Monday I went to the garage and had a butcher's at her recent waybills and returns. Her daily pay-ins would barely cover the expense of the bus, herself and the driver, but her paperwork was kosher and accurate to the last penny. Her time-keeping record was flawless and her vehicle was hardly ever the victim of mechanical failure, a popular crew-induced malady favoured by those who milked the system. Copying Gina's duty schedule and bus running numbers for the rest of the week, I opted for an early night, fancying my chances in what promised to be a genuine challenge. At Nine on the Brixton Town Hall clock next morning I was at the bus stop, in my commuter suit, holding my commuter newspaper, with my commuter briefcase containing my commuter sandwich. OK, I'd been fantasising over what this chick would look like and how I'd handle it when I'd figured what she was up to. Yeah, OK, and what was in it for me. She was better than my best dream image, so help me. More leggy than lanky, she made that normally tatty uniform look like the suits those slinky city girls wear. Then she had this friendly but firm voice like a tour guide as she ushered the punters aboard, pressed the bell and straight away started punching out tickets as if on piece work - or self employed even. On top of that she had this your-bed-or-mine quizzical smile, which I tried hard to ignore to protect my cover. God it was hard. I bought a ticket for Trafalgar Square then tried to watch her every move on the lower deck without looking like a prawn. She was so efficient and courteous it was like watching an LT promotional video. She even pointed out tourist landmarks as we passed them. The Japanese and Yanks with their cameras lapped it up. I went back to my office, but no way could I concentrate on any work. I caught her bus again for the return journey but noticed nothing dodgy. I went home and 'phoned the garage manager later to check on her returns for the duty. Figures accurate, money spot on, takings still like a miners' whip round for Margaret Thatcher. Well, a thousand times better than that, naturally, but still about fifty per cent light for the shift. If there's one thing worse than being a driver or a conductor on a Routemaster bus, it's being a passenger, especially in the rush hour. I stuck it out for the rest of the week but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary about Gina's routine. By Friday I had to admit defeat - and it hurt. So I decided on the cards-on-the-table approach. Anyway, I fancied her so much that every time I looked at her my brain went walkies. She was ahead of me. "Can I ask you a question, sir?" The bus was stuck in traffic near Brixton Station and I had moved to the entrance ready to get off when we reached the kerb. In the milling of bodies I found myself pressed against her on the rear platform, acutely aware of her firm figure, her body scent. "Do what love?" I said, waiting for the grey matter to function. "Revenue or stalker?" Matter-of-fact, as if I was a disorientated punter - which I was for a minute. "Well both, as it happens." You don't lose it for long do you? I was relieved, almost euphoric. Which one would she prefer I wondered? "So! One of you keeps watching me when he thinks I'm not looking. Is that the jobsworth or the voyeur?" "The Revenue Inspector thinks you're in big trouble, but the other fella wants to take you for a drink," The red bus spewed out most of its passengers at the station while I clung on to the chrome rail, breathing deeply from the crushing effect of stampeding bodies and the thrill of her closeness. When the last one had gone I nodded for her to bell the driver. As the old workhorse picked up speed we shared a rear seat. She crossed her slender, model-length legs and I became aware of all my London Transport ethics vanishing through the small sliding window. On our first night out together I realised how smart Gina was. I also knew she was playing me at my own game, but it wasn't too painful. One half of me wanted to get inside her mind to find a clue to the missing money, while the other half just wanted to get inside her knickers. Both halves were disappointed. On our second date she told me she was a single parent with a one-year-old daughter. Relaxing over our second bottle of wine, I went for it and mentioned the company's quandary over her low ticket sales. But she only flashed that luscious smile and suggested an incentive scheme might help. As for the other, well, there was none of that. Next time I pushed a little harder. Her little girl, she told me, was the outcome of a drunken one-night-stand following a garage booze-up. The father, a married work mate called Hugo, opted for instant denial, then persistent amnesia. When she got stroppy he started a whispering campaign that forced her to leave her job. After the birth she was reinstated. She maintained that the experience had traumatised her so much that the next man she would ever sleep with would be her husband. "Right," I said, removing my hand, which had unconsciously strayed under the table and on to her thigh. "In that case..." It was the cue for violins and soft focus, but something I can't explain made me stop in mid-sentence, like I had quinsy. There would be other nights I reckoned. I needed to think it through. So the Revenue man took over, but his subtle questioning failed to solve the mystery of the short-changing clippie. This one was good. Meanwhile my basic instincts were being sorted in my cosy relationship with Laura. It was a sort of teacher exchange thing. She'd call at my flat twice a week and I'd try to bring her maths up to speed. You see I still felt guilty about helping her through the conductors' exams. By now she was making so many waybill errors that she was on three verbals and a written warning. In return she continued to surprise me with fresh and exquisite lovemaking techniques that made the Kama Sutra seem bland. She was rounded, sensuous and generous, whereas Gina was willowy and chaste. Then came the breakthrough. I had tackled and solved a few cases of simple internal fraud at various garages around Greater London. All the while my mind was on the enigmatic Gina. One night I was settling down with some extra strength cans and a video when Laura arrived in a right two and eight. When I saw the Gibson machine in her Tesco carrier bag, I knew it would be more lager than video. I handed her the glass I had already poured, sat her down on the sofa and waited for her latest tale of misadventure. As usual with Laura, you couldn't invent it. In Regent Street her bus had been stuck in traffic coming down towards Piccadilly Circus. Frustrated passengers reckoned walking was quicker, drivers got bored with hooting and swearing and Laura was looking at Hamleys Toy Shop front, remembering she needed a birthday present for her little brother. After a while, with traffic still stacked up, she put her machine in the cupboard, told the driver her plan and rushed into the shop. He promised to wait at the next bus stop if, or when, the river of traffic started flowing again. The purchase took only a couple of minutes. She emerged from the toy store, spotted the red Routemaster and dived on board. In less than a minute she had opened the cupboard using the steel T piece commonly used by LT staff. She deposited the young man's present in there, strapped on the Gibson and went about collecting fares on the lower deck. As the bus started moving she returned to the platform - just as another conductor was descending the stairs from the upper saloon. "What the hell are you doing on my bus?" she asked. As the penny dropped Laura panicked, retrieved the present, then jumped on to the road and ran like hell to the next bus stop, where a load of puzzled passengers and an angry driver were waiting. She collected her own ticket machine and completed her shift pretending the whole thing never happened. But she still had the Gibson she had taken from the other bus. Being in possession of such a piece of equipment, I reckoned, must be the legal equivalent of having a gadget for printing fivers. We slept on it. I told Laura that if she went to work as usual and stayed shtoom, I would get it sorted. The reason I felt cocksure was the description she gave me of the conductor on the other vehicle. I just knew it was Gina. Laura's bus was from another garage that shared the 159 route. I just couldn't figure out why Gina hadn't chased after her to grab back her property. Well, not immediately I couldn't, but a 'phone call to her garage put me completely in the picture. When I tracked her down I relished being in charge of the situation for the very first time. "Your place tonight at seven Gina." I said, "It's important. Trust me." I was confused at first because when I searched the garage records I expected to find the machine booked out to Gina. Instead I discovered that, while his vehicle was parked up at a bus stand about a year previously, a male conductor had gone to buy cigarettes. When he returned he found that his Gibson was missing. The fact that the cupboards were only accessible to bus crews meant that it had been an inside job. The investigation had drawn a blank. The conductor's Christian name was Hugo. I was holding all the aces. Gina was ready for me. She had taken her daughter to stay overnight with her parents, prepared an Italian candlelit meal with wine and changed into a long midnight-blue satin robe that turned her into a Goddess. I turned into warm putty. Later I proposed an early night and Gina trumped that by proposing marriage. Mellowed by Chianti that went down singing Italian love songs, my brain was on autopilot as I murmured a grovelling acceptance. This image of elegance would be all mine, for life, but only after the ceremony. Ever fancied a nun? I slept on her couch that night, the frustration driving me bananas. In the cold light of day I fronted her with my up to date case notes. She cursed Laura as a prime example of the brainless bimbo LT was recruiting these days. But without losing her cool she went on to describe the callous way Hugo had treated her, following the revelation of her pregnancy. She told how he applied pressure on her to have an abortion, adoption, whatever. When she refused, he spread nasty gossip about her until she was almost excluded from works social events, even canteen gossip. Months before the birth, management forced her to give up her job on medical grounds. The company doctor had diagnosed prenatal depression, but she knew management and Hugo's union mates were behind it. After the birth she took her case to a brief, then a works tribunal. She was reinstated, but without compensation. Her plan for revenge, she told me, was formed over months of pain and resentment. She calmly described how she decided to work only half a shift for the company and the other half for herself. In her mind, the acquisition of Hugo's ticket machine justified the fraud. She could implicate him if anyone ever sussed it out and her conniving bosses were getting their just deserts for the way they'd treated her. I bought it. The marriage was in a registry office, with a quiet reception in my local boozer down the East End. We moved into hers. I'd like to tell you that the union was blissful, but I might as well be up front about it. The thing about ethereal is that you can't make love to it. Well you can, but you usually feel bad about it after, know what I mean? Like a mermaid, I imagine - nice status symbol to have on your yacht, but how do you...? Gina is class, I could tell that from the outset. I ran out of words to describe her beauty when we went out together all dressed up and that. But heavenly bodies, trust me, are a no-no in bed. The lady was still out of my reach. I couldn't handle it. I think I'd used up all my brain cells figuring out her scam. Maybe it was her subtle way of telling me I was the loser. So, I done a runner. The old Gibson is my only souvenir of that cockeyed career move. Now I just think of it as a trophy from a Sherlock Holmes-style, five-pipe problem. I often wonder if I should nick a bus from a garage for an evening; they never take the ignition keys out, you know. I could do a night run to Trafalgar square, with Laura collecting topped-up fares from club ravers stoned out of their skulls. Then I could return it in early hours all warmed up for the 'milk run' driver. It's in the genes I suppose. But then again, maybe I'll just stick to the old ducking and diving. It's what I do best and it's gotta be less hassle. -------------------------------------------------- Fixer Sophie was devastated when Peter disappeared. It was the suddenness of his going that shook her, no last phone call at work, no post-it on the TV screen, only a silent void. She loved surprises, but this was silly. Even the guitar, his excuse for staying at home by the phone, stood idly in the corner. She blamed her neighbour Jim. After all, it was he who introduced Peter to the delights of Bacchus. In the washhouse that separated their hard-to-let category council flats, Jim could create a potent but palatable wine from the most unlikely of raw materials. Tasting sessions from his limitless stocks invariably led to nightlong parties. Life was euphoric for a while until squabbles erupted from lack of sleep and hangovers. With Peter less inclined to seek work and Sophie struggling to do her job professionally, their mutual respect had dwindled, along with their bank balance. But she worried about him and prayed that the St. Christopher medal she gave him would keep him safe. "You'll like this one Soph; I picked the elderberries in the park last summer." Jim placed the wine bottle on the table. "What's that smell?" "Oh, just the drains, they never come to fix 'em." "Not your shed then?" "Don't think so, I'm tidying up in there." "Any word of Peter? I've asked around the pubs." "He won't be back Sophie; trust me." "I'm comin' home for lunch for a while, just in case. He left his key behind." "You were much too good for him, you know." Scanning the cooking guidelines on her meal-for-one, Sophie tensed as she felt his hand grip her shoulder. "Not now Jim, I need time to sort my head out." "OK, but remember, I'm here when you need me. I'll be watching over you." When she went home at lunchtime next day, a man driving a sleek red Porsche had just taken the last available parking space. Until then she hadn't realised how many cars used the area around the flats in the daytime. Only a handful of residents were car owners, yet all the spaces were full. The Che Guevara Estate was only two stations from the City on the underground. She stepped out of her old Datsun Cherry to confront the stranger. "Excuse me, do you live here?" she asked. "Who's asking?" The voice was flippant, teasing, as he tightened his necktie. "Who's asking! This isn't a public car park, you know. I have to be back on duty by two." "You know, you're very attractive when you're angry." As he leaned over her, it was the cynical smile as much as the cliché that made her blood boil. "By the way, isn't it illegal to drive a car in that dilapidated condition?" he added, pulling expensive-looking mirror sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The full-blooded slap that sent him reeling surprised Sophie as much as her tormentor. "Move it, you ponced-up prat, or I call the police," she said, fighting off tears of frustration. He held on to a wing mirror for support, head shaking, eyes blinking. "You just do that and I'll have you charged with assault, you mad bitch." The smug smile gradually returned as he walked towards the subway, rubbing his face. Sophie bit her lip as she knelt to retrieve the letter that had fallen from his pocket. Sophie's confrontation was one of many, though less violent, over the weeks that followed. Visits to the council offices and letters to her Member of Parliament, resulted in strong metal gates being fitted at the entrance. Each car-owning tenant was given a key, but the padlocks were soon forcibly removed. On the day she received a ticket for leaving her car out on the road, Sophie challenged the Porsche driver as he was about to leave. "This should be yours by rights," she screamed, pushing the crunched-up penalty notice in his face, "commuters like you are gettin' away with murder – I live here!" When the police came to see her it was only to question her about acid attacks on the paintwork of some of the trespassing vehicles. While she disapproved of the vandalism, it did mean easier parking for a few days, although the interlopers soon dribbled back. Then her car failed its Ministry of Transport test and Sophie asked Jim if he could find her a newer model at a reasonable price. That evening, disturbed by digging and scraping noises as she passed the shed, she called out his name. As Jim opened the door, the smell assaulted her nostrils again, more pungent now, taking her breath away. "I spilled some acid," he explained, "and I've had to dig the floor up. It...it needed fixing." "Acid?" She also wondered about the punctures on the traffic warden's car. "You know, I use it for work." "Right." She found conversations about cars, even wine, boring, but as her concern for Peter turned to resentment over his cowardly exit, she warmed to the attentions of her kindly and devoted neighbour. "I have a nice little car for you. I'll bring it round tomorrow." He smiled a lot these days. It suited him. "I'll bring my breakdown truck, I have plans for your old Datsun, too." "Hang on Jim, how much..." "Shush! Seeing you relaxed and happy again is reward enough. But it's pay back time for that smarmy Porsche driver. Do you still have his letter with the address on it?" His lips tightened and his eyes had lost their twinkle. Next morning Jim spent an hour removing the engine and chassis numbers, registration plates and all traces of previous ownership from the Datsun Cherry, then the wheels. Sophie brought a picnic lunch and they waited in the breakdown truck near an ostentatious house in the suburbs, until a particular car emerged from the driveway heading in the direction they had come. Having ascertained that no one else was at home; they dumped the old car ceremoniously by the front door. She saw Jim take an oily rag from his pocket and remove the petrol inlet cap. "No Jim, I loved that old car. I don't think I could handle seeing it cremated. Besides, I want him to know whose car it is. I just wish I could see his face when he sees it." She was ecstatic about Jim's choice of a replacement car. The anxiety was gone now; she was back in control of her life - and she had her parking space again. Although she occasionally feared retaliation, she now felt capable of handling it, if it came. She no longer saw Jim as a threat, as she did when Peter used to share his wine. What he lacked in looks he more than made up for in attentiveness. She still came home lunch times, but only to share a meal with the neighbour who was now her lover. A week later the Porsche was back. She had prepared a few well-chosen words for him, but the driver was nowhere to be seen. When she returned in the early evening the car was still there. Jim had been spending most of his spare time in his wine shed. When Sophie disturbed him he was putting the finishing touches to the new concrete floor. An old bathtub had been installed and the walls were freshly painted. It smelt nice again. "That car's back Jim." "I know, some people never learn, but I've fixed him." Two weeks later, its glossy bodywork now soft-focused by a thick coating of dust and gummy eucalyptus seeds, the sports car had been reduced to an abandoned shell supported by bricks. Che Guevara bandits took no prisoners after dark. Sophie's euphoria returned. To her delight she discovered that Jim also had a tendency to surprise. One day she found him dancing naked on the grapes in the bathtub. For the first time she noticed the gold chain around his neck and the St. Christopher medal. As he kissed her and handed her a glass of her favourite burdock and dandelion, she thought how ridiculous he looked in designer mirror shades. ----------------------------------------------------- Midas I often wonder where it all went wrong and ask myself "Why me?" Lucky people don't have that problem. Wally Earnshaw for instance, who, you might say, was my benefactor. Food and clothes were still rationed then, fivers were big white things you aspired to owning, and fiddling was the only decent living. OK, I took liberties with Wally, I admit, but he did have money to burn whereas I was almost permanently potless. Like me, he was an Eastender, but, unlike me, Wally managed to dodge national service by shifting down to Kent to become a miner. He was probably the only Limehouse lad who knew where coal came from and that some of it lay under the hop fields down there. But he did sneak back during the blitz and escaped death by a whisker when his old man's house, number twenty, was the only one left standing following a doodlebug raid. The other nineteen were flattened. At the time I was stationed in Bletchley Park, doing a cushy number deciphering codes, but missing all the action… and the scams. I never saw Wally as a superstitious bloke. After the war he used his contacts in Kent to make a killing in black market beef. I resented that. I mean, I was the bright one, yet all I could aspire to was bookie's runner, while Wally was coining it so fast, it was criminal. We would meet in the George & Dragon, just off Commercial Road. He might've been a great darts player, if he practised finishing on anything other than double tops. Twenties, you see. Being little and podgy, numbers below the bull would've be easier to hit, but Wally was obsessed with that number. Left on any other finishing double, his shoulders dropped and his bottle went completely. When I took his first betting slip to the shop, I thought he was having a laugh. You see, although I don't bet, I know quite a lot (well, as much as any punter gets to know) about the nags. I started taking notice just after this fella Midas (a nom de plume, in case my betting slips were impounded by the Old Bill) started using my services. I'd meet him in the café every morning about ten and he'd hand me his betting slip and eleven bob stake money. My routine was to collect all the bets, then take them to Ernie Tabor's back street shop about twelve. When he'd checked the wagers with the cash I'd collected, he'd bung me my commission. Then I'd meet up with him next morning and he'd give me the winning slips and money to pay out. I'd match aliases with faces, reimburse the very few lucky punters, and sometimes even cop a gratuity. Midas seemed to have a knack for picking losers - consistently, not a brilliant achievement I admit, but he had a run of three months with nothing back but a few bob for non-runners. So, after I'd studied the Sporting Life and Timeform to confirm my assessment of his selections, Midas's money went straight into my hip pocket, unless I could see that any of his donkeys had the remotest chance of winning. Six months on came my daytime nightmare - Midas's four no-hopers first past the post, at odds of ten to one through to thirty-threes: six doubles, four trebles and a four-horse accumulator! Even with shilling bets, his winnings came to well over a grand, reduced to a monkey by Ernie Tabor's make-them-up-as-you-go win limits. No way I could pay out, so I just showed Ernie the betting slip, said I must've 'mislaid it' then scarpered. I was struggling to keep my eyes open so I could wash down the last of the sleeping tablets with black market whisky, when the bookie’s heavies broke my front door off its hinges. Stand on me, it's harder to bear when the boss man's after your money and not your life. I had to duck and dive even more to scrape a living. Midas got his five hundred smackers but Ernie gave me an impossible deadline to find the money. The bruises healed quickly, but the fractures were taking longer. Following my disastrous middleman-takes-all initiative I chose gullible Wally to fund my financial recovery. Janette, Ernie's cashier, felt sorry for me and took me out to the pictures now and again. I think she liked dark places. I mean, we were just getting over the blackout, yet there she was working in a windowless, illegal gaming shop! I may have known brighter girls in my time, but she was great in bed and with her insider knowledge she was my insurance against another pummelling, Wally was hard work. For one thing he would only bet on handicaps with twenty or more runners. Did he go for number twenty on the card or the horse drawn twenty, or should he wait until both numbers matched? "Twenty on the card," I would insist, a ploy that restricted his selections to the lower weighted no-hopers. They have low weights because, firm going or soft, they're plodders, with form figures like a row of duck eggs - the donkeys of the equine world. Still, I played it safe. OK, most of Wally's bets never saw Ernie's till, but they were sizeable punts so I had a few quid hidden under the lino at home as a safeguard against another Midas phenomenon. We were in the George when he sprung it on me. "Change of plan, Tel." He handed me his betting slip. "I've had a tip - a racing certainty! Sold a few carcasses for cash to a bloke who trains horses at Newmarket. Put it on the nose eh?" He handed me a wad of big ones. "Wally, you're windin' me up - five hundred?" "Yeah. I assume you can handle it?" I hate being talked down to by a little guy. "Better OK it with your guv'nor, eh?" I let him hear me verify the bet - with Janette. It was a bad line. "Twenty to one," she said. "Nice one," said I, our code for NOT placing the bet. ********** Walking the beach near a disused shack on the rain-lashed Outer Hebrides, Janette and I still argue about it. "For the last time, Pet, when I said “what's Bird Lime?” I meant what was the horse's price! Maybe your watch said twenty to one, but Bird Lime was five to one ON favourite... I wonder if they have a picture house in Stornaway?" (c) 2006 Eddie Bruce **************************************