“Can I please have a volunteer from the audience? Yes madam, you in the red jumper with the fine head of hair.” These were the last words Mrs. Tilbury had heard. The next thing she knew, she was sitting on the toilet with her pinks round her ankles, bald as a coot-in-braces-listening-to-Bluenote, with the bearded magician’s Christmas compilation (softback edition) in her sloth-like grip. She had never been a big fan of the hirsute illusionist and had made her cynicism quite clear with tutterings, mutterings and rustling of Werther’s wrappers from her position in row C. It was her nephew, Tadcaster, who had bought his anunty the ticket. It was partly to show her that The bearded magic man really was the real deal but, he had to admit, there was an inkling of vengeful retribution for the months of disbelief in the beardy’s power whilst maintaining an unwavering habit of asking St.Anthony to help her find her misplaced spectacles.
Coley Portions 