“Wir wollen ein Boot mieten.”
“Beg pardon?”
“We’d like to hire a boat, please.”
“Then why didn’t you say so? Six quid.”
Six of the Queen’s Pounds – quite reasonable for an hour’s paddling about Weymouth Bay.
“Name and address, if you please.”
“What,” I ask, my whiskers bristling as the sun reflects off the blade of my freshly-drawn sabre, “What the Devil do you need that for?”
“Insurance, guv. Rules is rules – I turn me back for five seconds and you could paddle round the headland and WOOSH! You’d ‘ave it away.”
“WOOSH?”
“Yes, sir. Woosh.”
I kindly point out that the craft in question wouldn’t go woosh if it were powered by the bastard lovechild of Lance Armstrong and Steve Regrave, but he is adamant.
But I care little for the stripe painted across his nose and the dandy highwayman attire – and I tell the scruff the big mistake he’s making – so I reluctantly comply with his request.
“So,” I ask apropos of nothing but to show that I am able to write and move my lips at the same time, “What do you do with these names and addresses?”
“Oh, nothing much guv. I just stick them in this ‘ere folder.”
“Ah yes,” I observe, “The one marked PEDALO FILES in red chisel-tip marker.”
“Then I give it to the police.”
“I tell you what, my good man. I think I’ll just hire a sun lounger.”
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