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Authors: Malcolm D Welshman
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into a rebuke. She glanced across at the stack of feed bowls waiting to be washed. The inference was obvious. I saw Lucy redden and her freckled nose twitch.
‘I actually agree with Lucy,’ I decided to say and watched – with delight, I must confess – at how rapidly Mandy’s face went pale, save for two hectic blotches on each cheek. Now, now, Paul. Naughty boy … you should stay out of all this. But I felt the plan Eric and I had formulated the evening before had some merit – it had not been just the drink talking – and so was grateful of Lucy’s support.
In fact, thanks to her, the plan actually swung into action.
She volunteered to find out the calorie content of anything that Peggy was likely to be offered as titbits in the pub and, within 24 hours, had come up with a list of the calories in a crisp, peanut, a chip, a variety of chocolate bars and portions of sandwiches and pasties.
‘It’s a bit hit and miss,’ she confessed.
‘That’s not a problem,’ I said. ‘It’s just to give people a guide.’
When I gave Bernie the list his raised eyebrows said it all. He handed it to Brenda. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, I suppose it’s worth a try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Except more pounds on Peggy, I thought.
So we went ahead. Anyone caught giving Peggy a titbit had to put a calorie fine in a charity box displayed prominently in the bar. The amount of the fine was proportional to the estimated number of calories in the titbit.
Bernie told me later that one teenager, his tongue loosened by too many alcopops, asked whether the slim-in was for Peggy or Brenda and nearly got a pasty in his face as a result. ‘And he wasn’t the first to crack that joke,’ Bernie said. ‘Brenda’s getting quite touchy about it all.’
As co-instigator of the plan I decided it would be wise to steer clear of the Woolpack for a while, just to be on the safe side. If Brenda was getting sensitive about her own weight then I didn’t want to rub it in by asking about Peggy’s and get a pasty in my face for my efforts.
But the finish of another hectic Friday surgery a few weeks later had me over there, cajoled by Eric – just for a quick jar. Or two.
‘You do realise this is becoming a bit of a habit,’ I said.
‘What the heck. You need to wind down a bit. Relax,’ he replied. No mention was made of whether Crystal approved or not. I decided it was best not to ask.
The list and charity box had disappeared. Hmmm … not a good sign, I thought uneasily. Bernie seemed cheerful enough, though did I detect a slight hollowness in his bonhomie? But I had to ask the question. ‘So how did it go?’
‘Well … it sort of worked,’ he said, pulling a face as he pulled our pints.
‘Come on, Bernie. What do you mean “sort of”?’ said Eric.
Bernie shrugged. ‘As soon as the regulars realised how much it was costing them in calorie finds, the titbits stopped.’
‘Well, there you are, our plan worked then. It must have helped Peggy’s diet.’
Bernie flapped his jug ears and looked doubtful. ‘Well, I tell you. Peggy’s not half the dog she used to be.’
I choked on my lager. What was he on about? Not half the dog? Had something gone wrong? Had the dieting upset her?
‘See for yourself,’ said Bernie, raising the bar flap. Unable to control himself any longer, he burst out laughing as Peggy trotted through, the half-dog he’d mentioned … streamlined, fit, half the weight she used to be.
‘She looks fantastic,’ I said. ‘Well done. I bet Brenda’s pleased.’
‘In more ways than one,’ said Bernie still chuckling. He pointed a finger over my shoulder.
‘Good lord,’ spluttered Eric. ‘Who’d have thought …’
I spun round to find Brenda, hands on hips, in a figure-hugging black dress, the figure it hugged being a shadow of its former self. She twisted her hips and gave a little twirl.
‘Good, eh?’ she said. She went on to explain, ‘Lucy was a great help. She
‘I actually agree with Lucy,’ I decided to say and watched – with delight, I must confess – at how rapidly Mandy’s face went pale, save for two hectic blotches on each cheek. Now, now, Paul. Naughty boy … you should stay out of all this. But I felt the plan Eric and I had formulated the evening before had some merit – it had not been just the drink talking – and so was grateful of Lucy’s support.
In fact, thanks to her, the plan actually swung into action.
She volunteered to find out the calorie content of anything that Peggy was likely to be offered as titbits in the pub and, within 24 hours, had come up with a list of the calories in a crisp, peanut, a chip, a variety of chocolate bars and portions of sandwiches and pasties.
‘It’s a bit hit and miss,’ she confessed.
‘That’s not a problem,’ I said. ‘It’s just to give people a guide.’
When I gave Bernie the list his raised eyebrows said it all. He handed it to Brenda. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, I suppose it’s worth a try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Except more pounds on Peggy, I thought.
So we went ahead. Anyone caught giving Peggy a titbit had to put a calorie fine in a charity box displayed prominently in the bar. The amount of the fine was proportional to the estimated number of calories in the titbit.
Bernie told me later that one teenager, his tongue loosened by too many alcopops, asked whether the slim-in was for Peggy or Brenda and nearly got a pasty in his face as a result. ‘And he wasn’t the first to crack that joke,’ Bernie said. ‘Brenda’s getting quite touchy about it all.’
As co-instigator of the plan I decided it would be wise to steer clear of the Woolpack for a while, just to be on the safe side. If Brenda was getting sensitive about her own weight then I didn’t want to rub it in by asking about Peggy’s and get a pasty in my face for my efforts.
But the finish of another hectic Friday surgery a few weeks later had me over there, cajoled by Eric – just for a quick jar. Or two.
‘You do realise this is becoming a bit of a habit,’ I said.
‘What the heck. You need to wind down a bit. Relax,’ he replied. No mention was made of whether Crystal approved or not. I decided it was best not to ask.
The list and charity box had disappeared. Hmmm … not a good sign, I thought uneasily. Bernie seemed cheerful enough, though did I detect a slight hollowness in his bonhomie? But I had to ask the question. ‘So how did it go?’
‘Well … it sort of worked,’ he said, pulling a face as he pulled our pints.
‘Come on, Bernie. What do you mean “sort of”?’ said Eric.
Bernie shrugged. ‘As soon as the regulars realised how much it was costing them in calorie finds, the titbits stopped.’
‘Well, there you are, our plan worked then. It must have helped Peggy’s diet.’
Bernie flapped his jug ears and looked doubtful. ‘Well, I tell you. Peggy’s not half the dog she used to be.’
I choked on my lager. What was he on about? Not half the dog? Had something gone wrong? Had the dieting upset her?
‘See for yourself,’ said Bernie, raising the bar flap. Unable to control himself any longer, he burst out laughing as Peggy trotted through, the half-dog he’d mentioned … streamlined, fit, half the weight she used to be.
‘She looks fantastic,’ I said. ‘Well done. I bet Brenda’s pleased.’
‘In more ways than one,’ said Bernie still chuckling. He pointed a finger over my shoulder.
‘Good lord,’ spluttered Eric. ‘Who’d have thought …’
I spun round to find Brenda, hands on hips, in a figure-hugging black dress, the figure it hugged being a shadow of its former self. She twisted her hips and gave a little twirl.
‘Good, eh?’ she said. She went on to explain, ‘Lucy was a great help. She
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