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Meanwhile, in a lounge in a hotel in Swindon, a woman with leaf green hair approached the pianist. He looked up at her, and sighed - people like her approaching pianists like him usually meant one thing. Another sodding request. She leant over him, and in a voice that was strongly reminiscent of damp earth and things growing she said "Play it, Sam"
He realised, with annoyance, that it was actually her breath that was reminiscent of compost, and stood up. He was built like the proverbial brick outhouse, and could easily have been in a rugby team.
"Look, love" he said in a voice that proclaimed him to be from Wirral, "the name's Nigel. Nige to me friends. But Nigel to you. Aroight?"
She sniffed snootily. Then sniffed again, this time snottily. "And I'm Fern. Just fern. Yes, as in the plant" and she stormed off.
Meanwhile, in one corner of the lounge, a group of serious-looking chaps and chapesses were talking in hushed tones about whether there was a plant in their midst. Some favoured Fiona, claiming she was too serious to be serious. Others favoured Hugh, claiming he just didn't take things seriously enough. No-one mentioned Fern, perhaps because the noise of a small, plump game bird banging on metal in the corner kept distracting them.
Security, fed up by the noise, approached the partridge. "Oy. You. Out" he said.
"But I'm only making pans!" exclaimed the partridge "for Nigel" he added with a nod to the pianist
The security man peered at the pans "You're making them in British Steel?" he asked
"Yes. I only want what's best for him"
"We-ell, if yon Nigel says he's happy" he nodded towards the pianist"
"He must be happy" exclaimed the other, as Nigel stood up, looking anything but.
"Alright" said the security man, sounding adamant, " get out"
"C'mon Andy, let's go" said one of the partridge's companions.
(This short interlude brought to you by listening to too much 70s pop covered by a 90s new wave group)
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