A place and a weather. London and smog.

I tell you what, Norma, I’ve just blown my nose – again – and out came yet another placenta of putrid black bloody bogies.

Oh, stop your bloody whining for God’s sake. Let’s just have a nice day out. And put that hanky away! And stop looking at it. It’s inhumane to stare at One’s bogies for too long. Never you mind, Bill.

Give me a couple of your tissues or something so that I can plug up my nose and leak no more sludge.

Just be ‘zen’ and think of the picnic we’ll have later: cornbeef sarnies, homemade scotch eggs and lemon tarts. Delicious. They’ll do you some good, Bill. Perk you up a bit and make you feel fresh. Those tarts are full of vitamin C you know.

That won’t help, you daft woman. Are you even listening to me? All this bloody place does is make me sick. I’m telling you, the reason I got that flu last Tuesday is this city. It has different air to back home.

Sometimes, I really have had enough of stinking cow-pat and fields. I need to escape this humdrum life and free my gypsy-soul. The haze of the city makes me feel like I’m on a stage, where I have always belonged of course. If only I were tall and thin enough to dance ‘the ballet’.

What are you talking about, Norma? When have you ever been on a stage in your life? This ‘haze’ is no buggering shapshot filler or whatever those imbeciles use nowadays – I can see right through it. I used to have 20:20 vision back in the day, could see through walls I tell you.

20:20 vision – my arse. You’ve needed glasses for as long as a fish has needed to swim. Oh, just – think of the scotch eggs, Bill. They would be the highlight of the Bake Off – Mary Berry eat your heart out.

Take this seriously would you? The poison in the air is making its way into our systems as I speak and filling us up with tar. Why can’t we just enjoy a nice day out back home in our garden with clean grass and air?

There’s no life back home, no soul. Can’t you feel that London-glow?

No, Norma, I can’t. All I can feel is a weight on my chest. Look around, everyone here is miserable. There’s no soul here.

The only miserable thing here is you, you old sod. You’re behaving like an old man.

Let’s sit down and have a cornbeef sarnie.