Your number's up... (From Bradford Telegraph and Argus)

Your number's up...

8:42am Monday 28th July 2008 in

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The Scribbler was swinging gently in the hammock in his broom-cupboard home on the third floor of the T&A’s Hall Ings building, musing on the follies of the world and the price of a pint of Old Enraptured Ragamuffin at the Boilermaker’s (which shrewd proprietor Wilf the Woolman had just put up by tuppence to cover the higher cost of the electricity to power the lager pump).

With a midweek day off stretching ahead of him, he was wondering whether to take a brisk walk to a gym and book himself in for some strenuous physical exercise or stay in the hammock and muse. Opinion was just edging in favour of the musing option when the broom-cupboard door burst open and in charged Thelma Gusset (pronounced “Gussay”), the women’s-page editor and object of Scribbler’s affections.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be working this morning.”

“We have to find it!” gasped Thelma, her eyes scanning wildly around the room. “It must be somewhere. I’ve searched and searched. Every drawer in my bijou apartment has been turned upside down. I’ve been through every handbag. I’ve turned out all my pockets. But there’s no sign of it.”

“Of what?” asked The Scribbler, swinging his legs out of the hammock in a much-practised manoeuvre and dropping to the floor, kicking over the mug containing the dregs of the previous night’s cocoa as he landed.

“Of this,” cried Thelma as the hapless hack hopped about with a wet foot. She held up a copy of that day’s T&A which was folded open at a story about a missing Lottery ticket. “Someone bought this in Bradford on July 5. These numbers are worth £240,928. I bought a ticket that day. But I haven’t a clue where it is.”

Spurred on by the prospect of a possible share in nearly a quarter of a million smackers, The Scribbler sprang into action. Pulling on jeans and a sweater over his Batman vest and underpants, he helped Thelma to carry out a thorough search of the broom cupboard. It didn’t take long, the furnishings being of necessity minimalist.

“Not here,” said Thelma, her desperation growing. “We must try the newsroom. It might be in my drawer. Or yours.” So they crept down the stairs and peered through the glass door. The Assistant Editor with Special Responsibility for Spotting Reporters Behaving Oddly was lurking in his partitioned-off corner of the office, crossing off items on that week’s expenses forms.

Thelma and The Scribbler tiptoed across the office to their desks. A discreet rummage in their respective drawers unearthed nothing more significant than (in The Scribbler’s bottom drawer) a rotting banana in a polythene bag.

“That was where the smell was coming from,” he hissed at Thelma. “And you were blaming my feet.”

They were out of the office before the Ass Ed could look up. Then The Scribbler remembered. He grabbed Thelma’s hand.

“Come with me,” he cried. “We’re off to the Boilermaker’s.”

As they dashed along the Bradford pavements he reminded her how they’d been sitting at a rickety table in the pub on July 6 and complaining about it rocking. Thelma had found a bit of paper in her pocket and he had folded it up and tucked it under the deficient table leg.

Fortunately, thanks to Wilf’s cleaning economies, the bit of paper was still there. The Scribbler unfolded it. “Right, give me the numbers,” he demanded.

Thelma stared at the T&A. “Two, 22, 26, 28, 30, 39 and a 12 bonus,” she read breathlessly.

The Scribbler’s shoulders slumped. “Three, 23, 27, 29, 31, 40 and 13,” he read leadenly from the ticket.

“The story of my life,” sighed Thelma.

“Never mind,” said Wilf. “Have a pint each to cheer yourselves up. And in view of the circumstances, you can have them at the old price….”