TONY OSGOOD - JOHN WRIGHT WINDOWS LIMITED

Tony recently took early retirement from a senior lecturing role in academia, prior to which he practiced in a National Health Service psychology team. He specialised in autism, intellectual disability, and person-centred support. Tony’s second non-fiction book will be published by Jessica Kingsley in March 2022. His fiction has or will appear in Blue Nib, Templeman Review, Literally Stories, Litro and Extinction Rebellion Creative Hub. He lives a skimmed-stone’s bounce from Margate, England, and is finishing a couple of novels. https://tonyosgood.com/

John Wright Windows Limited
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‘Smoothing your night with slide guitars, you’re listening to Dave Arnham, navigating the old ship Melodious FM over the whole of southern England. We’re broadcasting from a temporary studio in Ramsgate harbour – covid-19 emergency, remote working, doesn’t affect the radio, we’re all professionals here. Don’t panic, carry on. Not in the harbour, don’t be ridiculous, Dave, on a boat in the harbour, afloat even – best be precise – so we’re practically a new generation of pirate radio DJs, brought to you by John Wright Windows, for all your uPVC needs, boutiques in Canterbury, Tonbridge, Folkestone, even Gillingham.
‘It’s coming up to 3am on Friday morning. We’re halfway done, not done in, or done for, oh my no, just a joke­, and we’ll be together throughout the night, handing over at six for traffic with Marc Essex, which means we’ve three hours of calm chat remaining, a drop of news, and satiny sounds remaining, so snuggle up, settle down with Dave Arnham.
‘As you’ve no doubt cottoned, cotton bud yourself if you’re not clear, if you’ve been listening you’ll know tonight’s a special show, exclusively the domain, not a Domaine, hallo vineyards, the domain of the immortal Bob Dylan, given it’s the great man’s birthday, bound to die soon, how old is he? and that song was the mellow, and the very beautiful, and very true, She Belongs to Me.
               ‘Not that it’s possible, owning a woman, oh my no, just a joke, this isn’t the eighties, not those days today, perish that thought, and the song, 1965, of its time, the song’s ironic. I was four. Concerns Bob’s wife, though maybe not, all in the ear of the listener, I suppose.
‘It’s all quiet on the Kent front, no weather even, calm as can be, Beaufort zero, sea like a mirror, no waves, he said waving, not drowning, a small fire’s smoke would rise straight up, a distress flare would lifting aloft without deviation, and now it’s time, he said, filling, drilling the hours of night for your pleasure, for the news from our Maidstone studio, where Leisa with an unpronounced e is waiting to tell you about America’s latest blunder, and Europe’s most recent frustrations with the UK, no political bias, no flies in our house, news eagerly awaited by the nocturnal of Kent, insomniacs united. What else would you do on a Friday morning?
               ‘Hi, Leisa. Good to have you with us.’
               ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Leisa. Yes we can. How’s life in Maidstone?’
‘Hello. I can’t hear the cunt.’
‘Now Bob Dylan with One Too Many Mornings.’
‘I think there’s a fault on the feed–’
‘Leisa, shut up.’
 
*
 
‘Thanks for the headlines. An eruption! Let’s play a song for all the people in Indonesia, never been, heard it’s nice. Here’s the eternal Bob with Shelter from The Storm.
               ‘Snuggle up, settle down with Dave Arnham on Melodious FM. And once again, Leisa apologises.’
 
*
 
‘Tonight marks my fifteenth year, where does it go, time? keeping you company, sponsored this year by John Wright Windows Limited, for all your uPVC needs, truly, I’d use no one else, though now I live on the yacht, twenty-three foot sailing cruiser, 1973, White Horse 38, rare, ketch built, polished, I’ve not much need for windows, do we sailors even call them that? though I have needs, what man doesn’t? more wishes I suppose, and as Leisa said, I met her at a Christmas party once, feel I knew her so well, from her voice, with the news, though abrupt, caustic, as you heard, in person, and as she said later today we expect the latest economic data post-Brexit, peri-Covid-19, so don’t jump, it’ll pass, close the window, wear a mask to bed, oh my no, just a joke, and–
               ‘We have a caller.
‘Jan – are you there? You’re through to Melodious FM. You’re live on air, with Dave Arnham. You’re speaking to the only DJ foolish enough to volunteer to work nights, only joking, a man, still, just about, who will play a sleek Dylan song soon unless you speak, my love. Jan? From Herne Bay? Jan? Never took to Herne Bay, myself, not after–’
‘Hallo, Dave?’
‘You’re alive! just my joke, how are you, my lovely?’
‘Dave?’
‘Yes, Jan. Can you hear me?’
‘Dave?’
‘Jan? Can you hear me?
‘Let’s move on, time is pressing, see if we can reach out to Jan to call back later. Call back, Jan. There’s just me, on the boat, waiting.
‘Alone with the airwaves.’
 
*
 
‘Dave?’
               ‘Jan?’
               ‘Dave?’
               ‘We can hear you. How are you doing, my love? Is it okay to call you that? Can you hear me? Is there– the line, dead, dead weight waiting, oh my no, try again, Jan, keep reaching out. Hallo?
               ‘And she’s gone.
               ‘Next up, You Ain’t Going Nowhere. This is Melodica FM, sponsored by John Weight Windows, for all your uPVC needs. Take it away, Bob. Take it away.’
 
*
 
‘Of course, I expected not be to here, not in a rope about the neck way, not dying, though let me tell you, there have been dark times, as I think I’ve said before, no, I mean in England, working nights to fill the coffers still, the emptied accounts.
‘By now I had a mind to be living in Cephalonia, lovely, have you been? the south of the island? villa, not too showy, writing my memoir, waking early, making coffee in a French press while my toes enjoy the cold tiles of Greek mornings, chill in the air, warming later, high twenties, taking a cup of black upstairs to Jane, ex, as you know, she takes it black, or used to, before settling on the veranda to work until lunch. Tapping away, dropping names, Timmy Mallett, worked with, nice fellow, keen to be loved, funny hat, setting out the truth once and for all, all the smiley people in the media, sad, as if waiting to be switched on by the audience, made real and vibrant by others, needed, dull when alone, tap tapping the memoir, I’d be, listening to birds, wind through olives, insects, tell it all, from childhood to the Falklands, tracer rounds, helicopter landings, moss, Goose Green, smacked in the thigh, shattered, phone calls to Jane, pain killer, a voice across the ocean, upended world, and on to now, in Greece, well-earned retirement, investments, careful, typing and tapping away, enjoying the view down the valley to the sea, before Jane would wake to a warming 10.30am, setting off in her jeep after toast with honey, local, butter, local, she’s lovely, sunglasses on her head, not too much make-up, classy, sending stones, dust fly on the road, off to the donkey sanctuary, where she’d volunteer, great organising, Jane, encouraged me to work nights, more intimate she intimated, though the audience is direful, nice word, not made-up, meaning the numbers, not the quality, said I’d have the space, I suppose she meant for herself, but by now I’d be on the veranda, counting my blessings, my pills, pain killers, writing, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my computer words, which are only pixels, and odd, fractured, alone with memories, because I worked with them all, let me tell you, in the late eighties, and the nineties, everyone knew me, media presence, everyone worked with me, television, not just the hero stuff, tough work though, all that recalling Goose Green, and I suppose I could have presented a wildlife show, Dangerous Animals, ex-Army, but then guest DJ Radio One (once), Radio Two (twice), then local (forever), it would all come out on that veranda, how Jane found our perfect place, took me in hand, a villa overlooking a valley leading to a bay of sand, the call of the sea, afternoon swims after a lazy lunch, back to the poolside for an afternoon snooze, wasps, ants, controlled, and kissing Jane beneath olives, shutter the heat of the afternoon, dip in the pool, bit of heaven Jane said, but the money, and then she had a better offer than a night-time DJ, someone to keep her warm, in black coffee, dark night, and I suppose not waking to a man in fatigued cold sweats seemed attractive, changed the sheets each morning without a word, and pillows, too, beaten, a monthly expense, but we once had it all planned out, her donkeys, my writing not so much a kiss and tell, more a type and yell, some of the things, oh my, it was a different time, but faithful I was, unlike Jane, unlike my colleagues, let me tell you, my book would have told it as it was, no bean unspilled, unspoiled, Spandau Ballet, Culture Club, Flock of Seagulls, great timeless tunes, oh my, the amount of alcohol and blusher, hair styles, frills? curlers? Level 42, Lion Sleeps Tonight, don’t get me talking about curlers, and Jimmy S, clunk lick, everyone knew, down at the old bull and bush, but not me, I had Jane, thought I did, safe as houses, so–
               ‘Time for more Bob sleekness, take my mind off, saw him once in Dallas, amazing, with Only a Pawn in Their Game. Take it all away, Bob.’
 
*
 
‘Once again, thank you for being so open, Jan. It can’t have been easy, the one partner, since childhood, snatched away by this awful disease, compounded by diabetes, genetic, not lifestyle, Dominic Cummings disregarding the spirit of the lockdown, not easy at all, seventy-five is no age these days, eye-test shenanigans, one rule. Jan, it’s just another change.
               ‘When I was a lad, sixty seemed ancient, all change, everything does, like the permissibility of planets, norms adjusted, what gives people the right? nothing’s fixed, Jan, it’s natural to feel purposeful as driftwood, pulled from a seashore building by storms, flung, out, what’s this bit for? a lintel floating? heavy, waterlogged, yet balsa light, don’t worry, hang on, Jan, you will get through this with your kids and grandkids calling around, early days, early nights is what you need, invest in sleep, and it’s natural to mourn, that’s part of the process, steps, like alcoholism, and my dad, well, we never got along, always asking questions, a firm hand and tired eyes, worked hard, All Spice, bitter not lager, no to the Common Market, thought we’d live like that forever, Enoch’d us, rivers of bilge, but Jan you see everything changes, that’s the only fixed thing, so the Army seemed the natural place for me, routines, see, Jan, routines, to keep going, the Army taught me a thing or two, escape, bolt hole, bullies, and then next thing I was on a ship, miles of waves, never thought I’d be doing it for real, worse, I thought, worst would be Ireland, the Provos, at worst, but everything changes, do you see, Jan? and on the long journey down south, more a cruise, lots of beer, see the sights, I thought I’d joined the wrong service, so that’s a change there, Jan, must have been all those blue waves, never ending, the sea, calling, transformative, I read our ancestors swam regularly, and we stopped, mid-Atlantic, Captain said, “Over the side!” so went swimming, lark, huge shark, right by us, can see your toes clear as day as you paddle, always predators, waiting, and the blue nothing goes down forever, and I thought, what if the ship leaves us here? HMS Redacted for Security Reasons, leave us in the middle of somewhere else, adrift and lost, all at sea as they say, and we scrambled back up, sharpish, not mates, not really, just people I worked with, and when we arrived down south it was cold, and there wasn’t enough of anything, really stretched, every second counted, each step mattered, made a man, or broke him, but nice to get on dry land, so there’s another change, Jan, and the smell of jet fuel, the stain of diesel on pure water, cold as a father’s eyes after a long shift, and there was wet mud, boots, the acrid burning of the school, Goose Green, you probably saw me on the news, the thin bloke shaking, tired out, lost on low tussock hills, blood, thirteen mile yomp, Jane waiting at home, kept me going after the wound, pain killer, Argentinian snipers, close run, head shots some, kept me sane thinking of her, blue south Atlantic eyes, her arms, her tongue at my ear, flown home, quicker, then interviewed from a Hanover hospital bed, radio producer said I had a certain voice, spoke, spoke well, truly, plus loved banging tunes, trial, given, gave it a go, special guest, audience participation, took off, Pebble Mill at One, met Felicity Kendall (lovely), Sandra Dickinson (beautiful), Liza Goddard (determined), the Krankies (bit niche), then it all became a bit samey, did a few documentaries on television, woke nights, depression, they said, didn’t buy into the tablets, trauma? maybe, A Soldier’s Homecoming being my most famous television work, BBC Two, late night, critics loved it, then I was asked to write a book, so all these changes, Jan, best seller, but then what? like the sea, shipping forecast, to local radio in the end, home, nice home, curtains to Jane’s liking, spotless kitchen, didn’t cook much, nice bedroom, didn’t sleep much, warm duvet, couldn’t move, and she was reticent, who wouldn’t be? and no children, one of those things, tried, a bit, at first, then hobbled by night work, IVF, five cycles, small fortune, egg harvesting, the horror of hormones, and Jane, well who can blame her? certainly not me, and so I bought the yacht, the good ship Lady Jane, with the left-overs, twenty-three foot, home and studio in these strange times, comfortable, and stayed, moored in Ramsgate harbour, staid, waiting for the weather to turn, while Jane took a cruise, several, with her new partner, he showed her Jamaica, land of his family, Windrush scandal, awful, poor bloke, all I showed her were wounds, she said, and they’ve still got the house, I put in all the windows, Jan Weighs Windows, bit limited, amazing quality, self-cleaning, eat your dinner off them if horizontal, oh my no, only joking, and now, despite her age, though she’s younger than me, counts for a lot, biology, and given she’s not been shot you see, not yet, oh my no, just joking, nor yomped, or seen a friend dissolve in red, here one moment, mush the next, and she is, I hear, Jan, with child, and I’m happy for her, what we always wanted, and I’m genuinely happy for Jan, lovely, which is a change, you see, and I wish them both well, he seems nice, after therapy, which is a change for her, and he’s added a conservatory, but before I become maudlin, let’s have Bob’s dulcet voice croon away discomfort with the unctuous If Not For You.
               ‘This is Melodise FM, across the south of, not the Atlantic, but England, dear old Blighty, setting sail from Greece, and verandas, Europe, ya-sas, not much call for veranda’s here, buy John White’s Widows, you know you want to, Bob, take us away, far away, for pity’s sake.’
 
*
 
‘We can expect spectacular sunsets then, Leisa?’
               ‘Yes, David. As the ash travels the world, we will–’
               ‘Dave.’
               ‘Pardon?’
               ‘My name’s Dave.’
               ‘Yes, that’s what I said–’
               ‘Though actually it wasn’t. You sounded like my mother. Oh my no!’
               ‘Pardon?’
               ‘Not granted. Fifteen years. The wrong. Fucking. name.’
               ‘I–’
               ‘We’ll be back to you in an hour, Leisa. Here’s Bob, with Just Like a Woman.’
               ‘Cunt.’
 
*
 
‘You’re listening to Dave Arnham on Melodrama FM, in partnership with Jan Weighs Wimples, for all your PVC needs, with specialist boutiques in Canterbury, Tonbridge, Folkestone, and colour me shocked, Gillingham.
               ‘Earlier we spoke with Jan from Herne Bay, not been there for years, since the bypass, excuse, you see, I suppose, don’t want to upset Jane, whose house is in Herne Bay, a posh bit, not run, not mill, though the clinic is in Athens, too close to home, the clinic, cost a small fortune, he can afford it, ICSI, like IVF on steroids, older mothers a speciality according to the internet, sex choices, probably able to deleted mental illness, who wouldn’t? because it turns out it was me, Jan, who had the deficit, not just wounds or wet sheets at night, while foxes perform wheelie-bin ablutions, it was me, Jan, don’t you see, which is another change from thinking you’re firing on all cylinders, when you’re not, you’re knotted-up, and though you cannot tell the microscope doesn’t lie, immobile sperm, and some deformed, like the big bloke in The Goonies, but with tails, and you have to face up to these changes, these ideas about what passes for normal, like the poor people in Indonesia, under ash, in the end it helps crops grow, makes a human reach up and out, and I’m happy for her in the house with its new conservatory, in Herne Bay, and I’ve seen him walk our dog, never cared much for it, seen him, when I happen to be over that way, I suppose, and her new husband, tall, quiet, kind, smiles a lot, walks my dog, but I’ve the Lady Jane, and when this pandemic is over, we can hope it will end, Jan, back to normal, when we’ve returned to normal, Jane, Jan, I’ll slip out of the harbour, head to France, I’ve done the homework, you see, planned a route out, away, down Portuguese coasts, sardines, Gibraltar, stopped off there once, ate paella, punched a baboon for stealing, then southern France, wine, Sicily, wine, follow the sun to Greece, ouzo, and a house with a veranda, and I’ll write it all, from fame to now, from promise to broken, got the title, Broken Soldier, all the colours of the wrong rainbow, whitewash nothing, blue sky, clear water, dolphins, fry, olives, rent a veranda, when the seasons turn and the waves settle, a change being as good as a rest, new start, ex-pat radio, might start up a business, windsurfers, kayaks, holiday makers, indemnity insurance, and in the afternoon, when Jane does not come back from the donkeys, I will have a plate of food, bread, cheese, more bloody olives, a glass of local something, spread my arms, catch the wind, go sailing around the island, and not feel lonely, and not give in, because it’s a good life, yes? and better than Goose Green, and it was only my leg, and when I’m sailing I will text Jane, roaming rates permitting, ask her, ‘Guess Where I Am?’ and hope she replies, stay hours in an agitated waiting room of a boat, because this is dealing with change, Jan, it is not about being heroic, got that tee-shirt, hid the medal somewhere, wet sheets, pillows beaten, Jane’s frightened eyes at my thrashing about at night, who can blame her? putting up with me? and when she replies, I’ll breathe, swallow a blob of sick in my frightened throat, and I’ll say, chirpy-like, ‘I Am Where We Dreamed of Being,’ not with an edge, and she’ll reply, write something flippant, perhaps, knowing Jane, ‘Bognor?’ because laughing is what matters, Jan, even when your throat is thick with sadness, tired from caustic emojis, coated by purple longing, and though you don’t know if another step is just too much bother, you step on, you’ve got to laugh, local DJ jokes, walk the plank, John Williams Windows, unlimited, for all your movie needs, and you keep going, Jan, it’s horrid, but you do, drop the past, it will pass, though you don’t want it to, I suppose I understand you, Jan, as any man can understand a widow, sitting quietly in the afternoon lounge with the light fading, waiting from friends who never come, social distancing they say, they’ve always an excuse, or a widow staying up all night in fear of half a bed, we know that feeling, don’t we, love? so perhaps laughing even if it sounds full of lies thick as yellow custard is the right medicine, laughter, not custard, you kind of keep swallowing, I suppose, and one day, Jan, one day you won’t need to think about laughing, you won’t need to engineer your face, re-arrange your hands to mock casual, and it will come naturally, you’ll just laugh, your hands will know what to do, all by themselves, and hours will feel light not leaden, bright not grey, hallo, where did the time go? and you won’t stop to think, ‘I have no right to this happiness, it does not belong,’ because you bloody do, Jan, and happiness does, Jan, though it is hard after thirty years of love, you deserve a bit more, and you deserve regret, too, like feeling upset, not Goose Green upset, but a little, reasonable upset at seeing a conservatory usurp your home, or a strange man walk your dog, because at the end of the night, it’s your right to be happy, as it’s my right to deserve Greece, memoir, and to want Jane to come back to our well-deserved veranda.
               ‘It’s 4.34 and you’re listening to someone who was once Dave Arnham, on Melon FM, full of fruits, in partnership with Jan Wrangles Windolene, no advertising, for all your latex needs, oh my no, only joking, who listens anyway, I mean really listens, it’s lonely, life, full of suds and sudden changes, sullen exhausting nights, Jan, can’t you sleep either on damp sheets cold from fear of being left behind? but hold on, lovely, it’s me and you against the world, like Jane & I, ladies first, but who listens truly? and I’m not losing it to loneliness, don’t think that, Jan, but after fifteen years of working nights, one hundred and eight months of not writing my memoir, I did BBC Look East, great crew, reminded me of being a guest on Challenge Anneka, very tall, and once I was on Kilroy, chiselled, spittle-grey hair, Noel Edward’s Christmas Presents, don’t ask, fifteen years of not sailing to Greece, journey interrupted by divorce, I loved her, may still, still, still life’s a series of traumas, pinball Dave, living on a boat adorned like a memorial, well, it makes you wonder, Jan, and doubt, doubt is natural, don’t beat yourself up, hold on, Bob Dylan now, Everything is Broken.’
 
*
 
‘I was always the romantic one, flowers, wine, perfume, pedestal, stockings, not for me, oh my no, only joking, rose-tinted, whereas Jane was more pragmatic, hard choices to be made? she’s your man, though friends, sided with Jane, naturally, I don’t mind not seeing them, like the dog, when I’m passing, he’s not that big he wouldn’t fall if I caught him right, despite therapy, though friends said they imagined what with me being an Army man I’d be the doer, but here’s the thing, Jane, Jan, here’s the thing with change, experiencing a thing changes you, takes the bluster out, natural filter, removes the BS, leaves behind less tangible things, more understanding, like being sensitive to the grain of a shelf you touch in the night, or the knot in the wood of a deck on a boat marooned in a harbour, no matter the sanding and varnish, comes up lovely, and the more you know the more you know you’ve less certainty to play with, Jan, do you hear what I’m trying to say?
‘It takes it out of you, losing someone.
‘Squeezed lemons, Greek.
‘And you’ll hear people say “be strong” and that’s as it should be, even when you want to let go, it’s wise to hang on, until you can’t, so let go before the fingers let go for you, I suppose ignore my hanging on advice, what do I know? as Jane used to ask, I’m dangling, not hanging, because here’s the truth, men are vulnerable, weak, Jan, and you shared how your husband was terrified of death, cried, called for his mother not you, that must have been hard, but you went through it, for him, and though after you regretted telling him to man up, be brave, all that, remember you meant well, like that one friend who stood by me saying I’d get over Jane, when we both knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t, that I won’t allow myself to accept our ending, not in a bullying way, not in a restraining order way, but in a sending Jane a cassette of our favourite songs way, which was still wrong, I’m told, like all the cards, and the bunches of flowers, and the dedications to her on the radio, wrong, actionable, metoo is thing, but in a way that lets Jane know I still, you know, have feelings, and still believe in verandas.
‘I hold on to the hope of getting help, if there’s any point now Jane’s not about, and I still believe in writing the memoir, I was in The Bill, played a corpse, then a paramedic, different episodes, of course, and I’ve made a start to be honest, to be honest, on the memoir I mean, perhaps not what I mean, starting with writing about our marriage ceremony in Sardinia, beautiful, cost an arm and two legs, white dress, long, not showy, couldn’t breathe she looked so lovely, god how I cried, like the baby we’d never have, at her being there and choosing me, talk about out of my league, crying at her slim brown arms making my heart burst with butterfly kisses, and her dark hair, sheer beauty, caught in the light of my eye, not captured by staid cameras, and I write in the book about the celebs there, too, Yvette Fielding couldn’t make it, some Blue Peter commitment, how the other celebs could not understand love as Jane & I might name it, and I have to confess, Jan, that she’s in every chapter actually, Jane, not Yvette Fielding, Jane’s at the beginning, when as a boy I imagined a wife, could describe her, and when I defined us by not being my parents, who shouted mostly at each other, kitchen sink drama, Army escape, there she was, waiting in the wings, and I’ll tell Jane that she’s in the middle, too, obviously, our awful search for children, gooseberry bushes having spikes, nascent fruit stolen by birds, and all the tissues and tears, injections, periods, apprehension, blame, poor Jane, the things she went through, coping, with me, with friends having children, drop of the hat, godmother is not the same, and Jane’s in the end of the book, too, in the absence of verandas, in not finishing the memoir, usual tripe, in fact, when I finish writing every page there she is, staring at me, waving from the indent, at the end of sentences, she’s still everywhere, dedication page, thanks, any entry in the index, Jane, and I don’t mind, apologies, Jan, not all about me, but it does seem, these fifteen years, I’ve an audience of one, Jan, as you mentioned, still talking to your husband, still putting out two plates, two cups of tea, because speaking to space is better than no dialogue at all, even if you feel lost at sea, or trapped on a boat in a harbour in the middle of the night.
‘I remember, fresh back from Hanover, Jane asking me what it was like, and I said something trivial, you know, downplayed words, and she asked what I’d left at Goose Green, and I said, ‘People. Love–’ and I was about to add to the list of lost things, when I realised she thought I’d said, ‘People, love,’ and I didn’t correct her, I wouldn’t know where to begin, so I said, ‘One day I’ll go through it with you,’ because that’s what it’s like, I know that now, it’s going through it every day, but this time with someone who should dare to love you, but she wasn’t happy, Jane, you could tell by the way she stared out of the window into the garden, watching birds visit the water feature, taking bits of moisture with them like pearls of happy, stealing from our supply, I couldn’t find the time to top it up, but the days turned, and I tried to entertain her, make her smile, and then months turned like the world, and there were seasons, and years, and still no word, and I suppose Jane tired of waiting, who can blame her? not me, I understand love has an expiration date, like the dog’s chip, change of ownership, there was no need for that when they kept the old address, but she kept on, Jane, waiting, asking, ‘What did you leave at Goose Green?’ and it’s a question I still can’t answer because it would mean speaking of everything, of myself, and it’s too big, the words are too long, so you see, I don’t blame Jane, and I like my little boat, easy to keep clean, tidy, and there are no kids or dogs to make a mess, and the deck is almost like a veranda.
‘Dave Arnham on Lady Jane, buy windows, get the economy going, it’s 5.42, and despite the best efforts of a volcano, the world turns, and that offers new perspectives every day, and one day soon there’ll be a spectacular sunset, or sunrise, Leisa says so.
‘Here’s Blowing in the Wind.’
 
*
 
‘Final caller of the night, just as light breaks, and the harbour’s still as a pond, too early for others, not for us, just us, snuggled up, settled, down, and the Lady Jane might as well be balanced on a glass dry dock, and as Leisa braces herself for more news, one last caller to Dave Arnham, on Malodour FM, brought to you by Jane Washes Windows, limited, for all your–’
               ‘Dave?’
‘uPVC– hallo? I hope you’re okay, love.’
               ‘Dave?’
               ‘You’re live on air.’
               ‘Dave?’
               ‘Jane?’
               ‘Dave.’
               ‘Jane, is that–?’
‘Dave.’
‘Jane, oh my Jane, oh–”
‘Dave!’
‘I’m okay. I’m just crying. It’s not serious–’
‘Dave Arnham?’
‘Who?’
‘Dave.’
‘It’s you, Jan.’
‘I just wanted to add–’
               ‘A final song before we speak to Jan from Herne Bay. This is Dave Arnham playing the everlasting Mr Dylan’s I Shall Be Free.’