Monday

“Well, I dewn’t know who it bluddy is,” I grunt at the wife, throwing the newspaper down the breakfast table. I take out my anger on a crumpet, ravaging it with silverwear. “Do you know who it is? I bluddy dewn’t.”

“Phileeep . . .” says the wife, dangerously.

“Well, do you?” I ask her. “Everybody else bluddy does.”

“I hehvn’t really thought about it,” lies the wife.

She’s tetchy. Bluddy Arabs turning up tomorrow, and she’s afraid I’ll cause an incident. “All right, all right,” I grumble. “Yet another alleged junky whoopsie in the family, and it’s only muggins ’ere who doesn’t have a clue. That’s all I’m saying.”

The wife fixes me with a look. Chilling. Great-great-grandmother lurking behind the eyes. India got that look once. Poor bluddy India. Never knew what hit it.

Tuesday

We sent one of the boys to pick up the Arab from the airport. Wotsisname. One of the ones with the ears. Now I’m waiting with the wife on Horse Guards Parade. The old chap peers about himself as he steps out of the car. Probably looking out for hands and bloodstains.

“Look at him,” I mutter, from the corner of my mouth. “Smug blighter. I bet even he bluddy knows.”

“Phileeeeep . . .” hisses the wife. “You aren’t going to say anything, are you?” I roll my eyes. “Fear not, cabbage. Conversation pleasantries all the way, what?” Before the wife can say anything back, the Arab is stepping up to say hello.

I grin, to put him at ease. “What ho! Nobody told me it was fancy dress!” The old battleaxe looks stricken, but the Arab seems unperturbed. “My sympathies,” he says gravely, “during a difficult time for your family.”