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invited.’
    This was the best suggestion Charles Paris had heard all morning. ‘That’s very kind,’ said the Director. ‘What, all of them?’ This question did not encompass as many as it would have done on a proper television OB. Union regulations do not apply for the making of non-broadcast material, so Griff’s technical support comprised only a lighting cameraman and sound recordist.
    â€˜Well, all the ones who’re wearing ties,’ said Brian Tressider over his shoulder, as he took his wife’s arm and led her towards the warehouse door.
    Charles Paris caught the flicker of glee in Will Parton’s eye. But he was distracted from melancholy thoughts of his tielessness by a little scene which was taking place the other side of the warehouse. The girl Dayna stood by the door as Brian and Brenda Tressider approached, with Ken Colebourne and Robin Pritchard close behind them. When they were almost level with her, Dayna leant against the doorframe in a frankly voluptuous pose, and winked.
    What was surprising about the gesture was its lack of subtlety. Almost as if she was parodying a vamp. It was the performance of someone either highly sophisticated or deeply naive.
    The Managing Director stopped in his stride for a moment, as if about to say something, but then thought better of it, and steered his wife out of the warehouse.
    It had only lasted a second, and very few people had noticed the incident, but it did seem bizarre.
    â€˜Right,’ said Griff Merricks, ‘let’s get these last few shots done quick as we can.’
    â€˜Sure,’ said Will Parton. ‘Then off to the Executive dining room for “a drink and some lunch”, eh?’ He grinned at Charles. ‘That is – those of us who’re wearing ties.’
    Charles grimaced long-sufferingly back at him.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ said Will in a voice heavy with mock-solicitude. ‘I’m told the Rissoles and Spotted Dick in the staff canteen are out of this world.’
    â€˜Thank you very much.’
    The writer shook his head sadly. ‘Such a pity it’s not licensed.’
    It’s remarkable how quickly television people can work when they’ve got a proper incentive. The last few shots of Charles on the forklift truck were in the can within ten minutes and almost before he’d got out of his seat, the cables were all unplugged and coiled up, ready to be packed away. Within another half-minute, Will Parton, Griff Merricks, his cameraman and sound recordist had all disappeared in search of the Executive dining room.
    Blatant discrimination, thought Charles. Meant to be living in an egalitarian society, and yet there’s still this massive undercurrent of prejudice against people who don’t wear ties. Huh.
    He looked disconsolately round the empty warehouse. Through the windows of the ground-level office he could see Dayna and Heather involved in inaudible conversation.
    A childish temptation gnawed at him. He moved back to the forklift truck and sat in it. Loaded shelves meant that he was out of sight of the office.
    Really would be fun to make the lift work, wouldn’t it? Raise and lower a pallet . . .? Even see if he could pick one up perhaps . . .
    He turned the key in the ignition. The engine started. He reached for the lifting controls.
    But no. That was being stupid. Could easily cause a lot of damage. Press that ‘Quick Release’ button by mistake and you could send a whole pallet’s load smashing down. Be your age, Charles Paris. (‘Forty-eight, but play younger.’)
    Reluctantly, he switched the ignition off and got down from the truck.
    Just as well, really. The girl Dayna was coming out of the office. If she saw what he was up to, she’d think he was out of his mind.
    She didn’t seem aware of his presence, but stood irresolute by the door. The room inside was empty. Heather must have retreated to her inner