‘What choo wearing big boots for?’ Sharon always spoke as if she had just walked on the set of Eastenders.
I told her I’d been doing research for a screenplay and continued tapping away on the laptop.
She took off her coat with the usual flourish and, as if by magic, the duster appeared in her hand. I knew what was coming next.
‘You know I’m not really a cleaner, don’t you?’
I sighed. ‘Yes, Sharon. I know you’re not really a cleaner.’ Trying to get the timing just right – for once – I was about to launch into the obligatory resolution, when—
‘I’m really an actress.’ Damn! She had beaten me to it yet again. I can never get it right. And to release me from my usual embarrassing apologetic grunt, she went on. ‘Been anywhere nice?’
‘Down a mine,’ I said. Surely, that was a conversation-stopper.
‘You written anyfing nice?’
I said no.
‘What about vat script of yours on the web?’
I was impressed. Finally, Sharon had moved into the 21st century. She must have spotted my surprise.
‘Little Greville found it, not me.’ Dust, dust, dust. ‘Wouldn’t mind a part in vat.’
I was about to explain that—
‘But I’m too old.’
She beat me to it. Again.