well, Jason. Here is a question from Sandra Page, aged eight, of Mellow Meads, Wessex Way, South Dene. That does sound a nice place, doesn’t it, Jason? Would you like to live there?’
Jason casts his eyes down and speaks in a thin, reedy treble. ‘I want to stay at home with my Mummy.’
What a pro! I bet that has them crying into their crackers down at the day nursery. Mum nearly bursts a gusset.
‘What a nice thought,’ says Miss Mealie, switching on full beam. ‘Now, let’s have that question. Sandra wants to know what time all the boys and girls on the panel go to bed. When do you go to bed, Jason?’
‘When The Sand Man comes.’
‘And when does he come?’
‘When Dadda goes away. Then Mummy says “You go to bed now, Jason, because Mummy and The Sand Man want–’
‘Yes, well that does sound nice, doesn’t it?’ says Miss Mealie hurriedly.
‘– to be alone together,’ says Jason doggedly. ‘And then sometimes uncle –’
‘Imogen!’ shrieks Miss Mealie, ‘what time do you go to bed?’
‘Depends what’s on the telly,’ says the pretty little mite, starting to chew a pencil she has been jabbing Eric with. ‘If there is a film, I stay up until “bye, bye, light” time.’
‘ “Bye, bye light” time?’
‘When the light runs away through the little hole in the middle of the telly, we say: “bye, bye, light”.’
‘How sweet,’ beams Miss M. ‘You are grown up, aren’t you? “Sand Men” and “bye, bye, lights”–’
‘And uncles,’ pipes up little Jason.
‘He’s a caution, isn’t he,’ says Mum. ‘I don’t know where he gets these things from, I really don’t.’
I was thinking the same about Rosie but I don’t let on. Ever since she went to the Isla de Amori and started reading those women’s lib articles, she has been a different woman. The time was when she thought the sun shone through the slit in Sidney’s Y-fronts. Now he is lucky if she can find the strength to chuck his smalls into the washing machine. I had not realised that her living in the Cromby Motel could create many of the problems that have been afflicting Sidney and myself. I must have a discreet word with her about it. Sidney does have a position to keep up and it is not only the one you find on page fifty-two of Everything you ever wanted to know about sex, but felt such a fool for asking.
I get my chance to speak to Rosie sooner than I had expected, because she rolls up with the infant Noggett an hour later. By taxi, no less, and accompanied by a thin, long-haired git wearing a beard and a shiny leather jacket with coloured panels. He looks a right berk.
‘Oh, mother,’ trills Rosie, all posh-like. ‘This is Dominic Ralph – he produces the show.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ says Mum, and she actually curtseys to the creep. Either that or her knicks have worked up.
‘Sooper,’ says Dominic, taking one of Mum’s hands with both of his – he probably needs two to lift it – ‘absolutely soopah. You’ve got a very talented little grandson here. Is this the proud father?’
He beams at me and I am quick to look disgusted. Likewise Mum and Rosie.
‘Oh, no,’ says Rosie with a light laugh. ‘This is my brother.’
‘Timmy,’ I say. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘How do you do.’ Dominic nods and his hair flops over his forehead.
‘Dominic’s going to take me out for a bite to discuss the new series,’ says Rosie, avoiding my eyes. ‘I wonder if you’d mind putting Jason to bed, Mum. I won’t be back late.’
‘There’s some football on telly tonight, Jason,’ I say eagerly. ‘Would you like to watch it with Uncle Timmy?’ I mean, if you can’t lick them, join them. That’s my motto.
‘No,’ says the ungrateful little bleeder, without looking at me. ‘Have you got any thweeties, grandma?’
‘Yes, dear. When you’ve had your supper.’
‘Don’t want any supper! I want thweeties!’ Jason’s fat little lip – it would be a darn sight fatter if I had my way – starts quivering and he turns on his mother. ‘You promised!’
‘Yes, all right dear.’ Rosie looks at Mum. ‘He is a bit over-tired tonight, Mum. Maybe if you did give him a few sweets and put him to bed.’
‘Remember to clean those little toothie-pegs first,’ I beam. ‘We don’t want nasty old Giant Decay rotting them away and causing little Jason excruciating agony, do we?’
‘Are you trying to terrify the child?’ says Rosie angrily. ‘A few sweets aren’t going to hurt him.’
‘Uncle Timmy was only thinking of little Jason’s welfare,’ I say.
Dominic looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Uncle Timmy,’ he says.
‘What?’ Rosie’s expression is like that of a cat seeing another moggy approaching its food bowl.
‘He’s got a kind face. It might be rather nice. Round off the show.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mum looks from face to face inquiringly.
‘Have you ever had any acting experience?’ asks Dominic.
‘No. Well, I mean, I’ve done a lot of work like acting. I’ve been a Holiday Host in a holiday camp and a salesman.’
‘Soopah, soopah.’ Dominic extends a hand and pats me on the wrist. It occurs to me that Sidney may have nothing to worry about tonight. I reckon the last bird Dominic fancied was probably his Mum.
‘You’ve never done any acting in your life!’ quibbles Rosie.
‘I’ve done as much as Conk Digits here,’ I say. ‘Just because I haven’t been to Rada doesn’t mean I haven’t got talent.’
‘Pop along and see me,’ says Dominic, transferring the pressure to my upper arms. ‘No promises, but it might be interesting.’
‘Are you going to put him on the telly?’ says Mum, catching up with the action at last. ‘Oh Timmy, I always knew you had it in you.’
A couple of days later I am sitting at the back of the Studio Five Control Room, waiting for Miss Mealie and the rest of them to come out of Make-up.
“You’ll get the feel of the show up here, ducky,’ breezes Dominic Ralph. ‘Just let it flow all over you and I’ll introduce you to a few people afterwards. That chair comfy enough for you? Goodo! Ah, Melly my darling. How is our lovely girlikin today?’
‘Pissed off!’ snarls Miss Mealie, grinding out a lipstick covered snout in the
