“Right,” said Norman, and he took out a sharpened pencil and a bit of old till receipt that he had been saving for a rainy day and took down Yola’s e-mail address. “Got it,” said Norman, when he had done so.

“Lovely,” said Yola. “And Norman.”

“Yes?”

“Love you.”

“Mmm,” went Norman, replacing the receiver.

Norman stood before the phone box, taking in the sunshine and the healthy Brentford air. He really should go straight back to the shop. That would be the best thing to do.

But then, as chance would have it, if such a thing there really is as chance, Norman chanced to see a distinctive form marching up the Baling Road. Decked out in pith helmet and safari suit and jungle boots, this distinctive form was none other than Archroy himself.

“Archroy himself,” said Norman, as he watched the distinctive form vanish into the saloon bar of The Flying Swan. “A five-minute conversation with that lad wouldn’t hurt.”

But then Norman’s eyes strayed once more towards Peg’s Paper Shop.

But then Norman shrugged. “If wishes were butter cakes, beggars would bite,” said Norman.

It was nearing twelve of the midday clock now and The Swan hadn’t, as yet, got into its lunchtime trade.

As Norman entered the bar, his eyes adjusting to the transition from bright sunlight to “ambient bar glow”, he did not espy all too many patrons.

At the bar counter sat Bob the Bookie, Old Pete, Councillor Doveston (who had not been up in the executive box as he wasn’t too good with stairs) and Archroy. And that was it, for the saloon bar was otherwise deserted.

“Good morning, each,” called Norman, making his way towards the bar.

But no head turned and no greetings were returned to him.

“Please yourselves, then,” said Norman, climbing on to the barstool next to Archroy. “A pint of Large, please, Neville. Oh my God!”

They were there. Before him. Beyond the bar counter and before him. Breasts. Big breasts. Big bare breasts. Two matching pairs of Big Bare Breasts. Norman stared at these big bare breasts. He gawped at these big bare breasts. These big bare breasts consumed all of Norman’s vision, as they similarly did the vision of the other patrons who sat transfixed before the bar counter.

“Boo-boos,” said Norman. “Big boo-boos.”

“Pint of Large was it, my luv?” asked Pippa. “My name’s Pippa, by the way.”

“Norman,” said Norman, breathlessly. “Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel.”

“Pleased to meet you, Norman. Is this the Large?” Pippa ran her hand up and down the enamel pump handle in manner suggestive of …

“Yes,” gasped Norman. “That’s the one.”

Pippa took up a dazzling pint pot, held it beneath the Large pump and cranked out foam and bubbles. “There’s something wrong with this pump,” she said, and she wiggled her bare bosoms about. Wiggled bare bosoms, right there, behind the saloon bar counter of The Flying Swan!

“I’m hallucinating,” said Norman. “I must have concussion from the fall I took. Or possibly I’ve developed X-ray vision. Yes, that might be it.”

“They’re real,” said Archroy, turning a grin towards Norman. “They’re the Real McCoy. And good day to you, old chap. No ill effects from last night, I trust?”

“No,” said Norman. “And welcome back, Archroy. And I have to talk to you about that.”

“Later, old chap. But for now, why not just sit back and enjoy the view.”

“The view?” said Norman.

“The view,” said Archroy. “And believe me, I speak as one who has seen views. I have seen views and I have seen views. The sunrise over Kathmandu reflected in the sacred Ganges. The mists upon the peak of Kanchenjunga, rolling down towards Nepal. The glories of fair Atlantis and also the glories of Rome (which are of another day, of course). But I have to say that, but for the bare-naked lady-boys of Bangkok, this is an unparalleled view.”

“Yes indeed,” agreed Norman. “But where’s Neville?”

Pippa presented Norman with a pint of froth. “It’s got a bit of a head,” said she, “but it will settle down.”

“I hope it will soon,” said Norman, plucking at his trouser front.

“Naughty boy,” purred Pippa.

“But where’s Neville?”

“He hasn’t come down from his bedroom yet. He was taken a bit poorly earlier. Loz and I had to open up for him.”

“But Neville would never be late in opening up,” said Norman.

“Well, he was today. How much is Large? Do ya know?”

Considering his pint of froth, Norman named a figure that was well below the actual asking price and paid with the exact coinage.

Pippa rang up “no sale” on the cash register and pocketed Norman’s pennies. Then she wiped herself down with a bar cloth, much to the joy of her beholders.

“Good day, each.”

The eyes of the beholders drew away from the beauty that was being beheld by them and beheld … Neville.

And the eyes of the beholders blinked and did the now legendary double take. Neville appeared somewhat …

Different.

He was not in his regular barman’s apparel – the slacks, the button-collared shirt and dicky bow. This was a new and hitherto unseen Neville. Although always smartly turned out, this was something more.

The part-time barman sported, and that was the word, a brightly checked sports jacket and a dashing red silk cravat. And his hair was all quaffed up at the front and he wore a pair of—

“Sunspecs,” said Norman. “You are wearing sunspecs.”

“They’re Ray Bans,” said Neville. “I generally wear them when I’m driving.”

“But you don’t have a car.”

“Anyone waiting to be served? Here, my dear.” Neville took a glass from Pippa’s hand and applied a practised hand of his own to the beer pump. “Yours, Norman?”

Norman considered the pint of froth that stood before him, pushed it aside and said, “Mine.”

“Are you all right?” asked Old Pete.

“Never better,” said Neville, and he lifted his sunspecs and winked his good eye at the ancient. “Never better. Does anyone else need serving?”

“Me,” said Bob the Bookie.

“And me too, old chap,” said Archroy.

“Archroy,” said Neville, “they told me you were back in town. I’m most pleased to see you.”

“And me, you,” said Archroy. “And your new bar staff also.”

“Yes,” Neville grinned. “Lovely ladies. Lovely ladies.”

And Old Pete and Councillor Doveston and Bob the Bookie and Norman and Archroy looked on in horror as Neville stepped between his new bar staff and smacked each of them on the bottom.

During the lunchtime session, Norman spoke unto Archroy regarding what had occurred upon the previous evening and received in return an explanation that he considered truly fantastic – an explanation which involved the now legendary Golden Fleece.

At two-thirty, Neville called “time”, much to the further horror of his patrons.

“Important business regrettably forbids me from continuing this session,” Neville told them.

“Then you bugger off to it and leave the girls to serve us,” countered Old Pete.

“This important business involves the lovely ladies,” said Neville. And he raised his Ray Bans and winked his good eye once more.

“To The Stripes Bar, lads,” said Old Pete.

And that was that.

And Norman returned to Peg’s Paper Shop.

“And where have you been?” Peg demanded to be told.

“Some important business came up,” said Norman.

Peg waggled a forbidding digit towards her errant spouse. “Well, you can stay here now,” she told him, “because I’m going out. It’s Townswomen’s Guild afternoon again.”

“Time certainly flies,” said Norman, “but heals all wounds as it does so.”

“Moron,” said Peg in a voice so loud that it rattled the humbugs in their jars. “I’ll be home about midnight.” And she left in a huff[33], slamming the shop door behind her.