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move it before another vehicle – maybe a Tesco lorry – thundered along to deliver a resounding coup de grace ? Animal rights activists might insist there was no choice, but I wasn’t sure if I could bring myself to pick up a lifeless, still warm body, nor did I fancy trying to shift it with my toe and getting scratched or rabidly bitten. Calling myself all kinds of a coward, I drove on to the hotel.
    *          *          *
    Originally an Elizabethan manor house and Grade Two listed, Garth House is an opulent chintzy place with four-poster beds, jacuzzis in the en-suites and nightly rates to make you wince. The grounds include a formal walled garden, nine-hole putting green and a helipad. Most guests are executive-level businessmen, living the good life courtesy of their companies. There are several high-ceilinged function rooms where wedding receptions, conferences and small-scale exhibitions are held. Time-share sharks sometimes bask there.
    When I arrived, I sped straight to the Ladies. I was desperate for a pee. I had washed my hands and was looking at the wan face in the mirror – an assassin’s face? – when I spotted two hairs. They were jet black, stiff and so long. I could swear they hadn’t been there yesterday, so they must have grown overnight, sliding stealthily out in the dark. Grotesque invaders. Leaning closer to the mirror, I angled my chin. The hairs appeared to come from the same follicle, one shooting right, the other to the left, like aerials on a ghetto blaster. I’ve accepted that youth has become a fond memory – more or less – but this was a wake-up call. Old age looms, it yodelled. The buzzards are circling.
    Some day! First Steve Lingard had stamped his authority, then my father had revealed himself as a closet Lothario, next I had pole-axed a squirrel and now bristles were sprouting from my chin. Fate had locked into the kick-ass mode.
    I poked at the hairs. How did I remove them? There’s everything in my bag from plastic toothpicks to an illegal pepper spray to squashed sachets of ‘refreshing tissues’ plundered from long-ago holiday flights, plus the essential chocolate lollies and Marlboro Lights, but no tweezers. The likelihood of ripping the hairs cleanly out with my fingers seemed remote, and painful, so all I could do was leave them and hope no one would notice, as I hadn’t noticed when I’d made up my face that morning. Made it up in a hurry, as usual. I find it hard to resist that extra ten minutes in bed.
    I was sprouting bristles, but what came next – a dowager’s hump, more warts than Oliver Cromwell, incontinence pants? Could my frantic dash to the loo denote a weak bladder destined to get weaker – or simply nerves brought on by my fears of a possible murder?
    Still fretting about the squirrel – was it dead or alive, even now ought I to race back and rescue it? – I went out onto the thick-carpeted corridor. Hearing the distant rumble of conversation, I headed towards it. Double doors were half open, so I walked inside and found a glass of red wine being thrust into my hand.
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘No problem,’ said a foreign-sounding waiter, who was going the rounds with a tray. He nodded towards a long buffet table on one side of the room. ‘Helpa yourself.’
    The wine tasted like nectar. While I don’t profess to be an expert, I can tell a good vintage and this rated high. Numero Uno, classy expensive stuff. The kind of wine which TV noses drool over as ‘full-bodied’, ‘flirtatious’, ‘confident’. I was wondering why the Garth House management was being so generous – or had someone uncorked the wrong bottle? – when it dawned on me that the people who were gathered didn’t look like aerobics aficionados. On the contrary. Most were elderly, portly and dressed in black. Nor was this the purpose-built wing designed to ‘soothe the senses and release your physical potential’ – according to the brochure. I hadn’t joined