Confessions from a Nudist Colony. Timothy Lea
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roof.
‘I don’t think they still do it,’ I say. ‘It looks deserted.’
‘It can’t be,’ says Sid. ‘There’s smoke coming from the roof.’
‘Maybe it’s on fire?’ I say hopefully.
‘Looks very authentic to me,’ says Sid. ‘You’ll get your food straight off the land there. It was just what you were talking about.’
‘Should be cheap as well,’ I say.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ says Sid.
‘No, of course not,’ I say. ‘I wonder you didn’t bring a sleeping bag.’
Sid’s eyes narrow thoughtfully and I wish I had kept my mouth shut. ‘You could stretch out in the back underneath the tiger skin rug,’ he says. ‘Mind your feet on the upholstery and don’t try and pee out of the window.’
‘Sounds very tempting, Sid.’ I say. ‘But I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind.’
The farmyard has half a dozen bedraggled chickens picking their way round it and if their condition is an example of the fare available at Bitter Vetch Farm it is difficult to see why they should want to hang around, let alone us. Sid however does not seem to notice that they look like long-necked canaries and knocks boldly on the door. There is a moment’s pause and the door is opened by a comfortable Mum-type lady with flour all over her hands. These she wipes on the sheep which is lying on the kitchen table.
‘Good afternoon, madam,’ says Sid briskly. ‘I believe you take people in?’
The woman’s face hardens. ‘If you’m from the Milk Marketing Board you can take your long snouts off our farm! The water in them churns came through the roof. My Dan would never knowingly cheat anyone. He ain’t got the sense.’
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