7:51am Monday 1st September 2008
By Telegraph & Argus
They were a subdued lot, the regulars of the Boilermaker’s Arms. The usual banter was lacking as they sat disconsolately in front of their drinks.
Thelma Gusset (pronounced “Gussay”) filed her nails. Graham the Gasman thoughtfully picked his nose. Sebastian Serple the social worker, his gender realignment as Sonia having been realigned back to what it originally was, scratched his head as he puzzled over 17 Down in the Guardian’s Quick Crossword. Postman Parvez doodled on the back of an envelope as he tried to work out a delivery route that would bypass the pit-bull terrier at number 46 Chav Avenue.
“What we need is some sunshine,” declared pub owner Wilf the Woolman.
“Too true,” agreed Barrington Thrope the resting actor. “My attractive natural tan hasn’t been topped up at all this year. I’m having to slap on the slap inches thick to give me that bronzed look as seen from the rear stalls. Not that there’s been much need for that, mind you, what with the Chufton-by Sea Winter Gardens ending their season of Summer Follies early on account of the non-arrival of summer this year.”
“Poor Barrington,” sighed his stage-clairvoyant mother, Doris “Happy Medium” Thrope. “First job since playing the Crocodile in the Peter Pan panto at the Wetwang Empire last December scuppered by inclement weather. That’s showbiz, as they say. But I’m afraid I can’t foresee any better weather on the horizon.”
“Some sunshine was forecast for this week,” protested Daphne the Venerable Barmaid. “The national weather people have kept saying that it would be cracking the flags. But I can’t see any sign of it,” she added, peering out of the pub’s grimy window at the overcast sky.
“That,” declared The Scribbler, climbing on to one of his favourite hobby horses, “is because they only care about the bit where they live, down in London and the South East. That’s where the heat is this weekend. The rest of the country doesn’t count.”
“I’m suffering from SAD,” said Thelma, adding “Seasonally Affected Disorder, or a lack of sunshine” by way of explanation for the benefit of Graham, who was looking puzzled – though it wasn’t clear whether it was because he’d not understood the abbreviation or because he’d discovered something disturbing up his left nostril.
Wilf’s face brightened. “I’ve had an idea,” he declared. “Tap-room trade has dropped off alarmingly since the smoking ban, so we’ll turn it into a solarium. People can take their drinks in there with them. We can call it Tipple and Tan. Not for nothing do I have an outstanding reputation as a businessman and entrepreneur.”
Graham withdrew his digit, studied the end of it, then said: “I just happen to know a bloke who has four sunbeds for sale cheap. Bid for them on eBay one night after he’d had too many cans of Special Brew and hadn’t a clue what to do with them when they arrived. D’you want his phone number?”
The following day The Scribbler and Thelma arrived at the pub to see a line of blue-white light shining under the former tap-room door, which had been adorned by a “Tipple’n’Tan” signed painted by Barrington, demonstrating another side of his artistic talent.
“Daphne’s testing one of them,” explained Wilf, adding: “Graham was right. They were dirt cheap.”
“I might give it a try next,” said Thelma. As the T&A twosome ordered their drinks the blue-white light went out. Minutes later the door opened to reveal Daphne in a towelling dressing gown and sun goggles.
“That was lovely. Really relaxing,” she said, removing the goggles.
“Then again, I might not,” continued Thelma, staring at a pair of white panda eyes in a crimson face. “No wonder they were cheap, Wilf. I think I’d rather stay SAD.”
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