Underground writing

‘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.