Wednesday 27th June 2012
Leaving the hotel
“WILL we now go to lunch?” I asked Brendan, as we walked away from the snapping jaws of the giant Me Dear.
“I’m not sure. You were supposed to be having a buffet with some vee eye peas.”
Presumably this was a dish similar to the mushy green one Tom had sometimes bought from the fish-and-chip shop.
Brendan intended to use his portable telephone to inform the Guvver Munt of our movements, but we were not yet fully free of Me Dear’s tentacles. Limbs of the beast had followed us into the lobby of the hotel.
“Ladies and gentlemen… please, please… no more questions. That really is all you’re going to get today. There’ll be opportunities for interviews after the holiday, but…”
Brendan was pointing the phone at them, pressing a button which caused it to flash.
“…anyone coming after us through this door will not be granted an interview. Never. And his or her newspaper will be named and shamed for a lack of respect shown to my friend from Rheta. All right? Good. Happy Chris Muss to all your readers.”
There was some laughter and a few heads called words of encouragement, but nobody followed us outside, where we entered, to my great joy, a traditional black taxi cab, exactly like one I had seen pictured in Emily’s First Encyclopaedia.
“So, Ulla, where would you like to eat? Somewhere quiet? Somewhere lively? Or somewhere in between?”
“I wish to be in between. The food is not important, but I would like to be in a place with no cameras and no uniforms and no giants; where the people are friendly, not serious and severe.”
“Two quick calls, then I promise I’m turning it off for the rest of the day.”
Having spoken to a friend, Louise, whom, he told me, he had not seen for three years, Brendan then called one of Ray Bilton’s officials:
“Virgulle was so upset by the press gang, we had to leave… yes, of course… no, she won’t… I’ll let you know.”
“Bilton’s all huffy again. But that’s his problem, not ours. As from this moment you and I are on holiday.”