The Fledgler’s rusting Lada rumbles determinedly down the middle lane of the M5 southbound, their caravan veering desperately behind, swinging across the carriageway at varying angles between 30% and 60%, evoking unprecedentedly vile verbal volleys from the Respectable British Road User.
Mrs Fledgler sits emphatically in the passenger seat, bosoms quivering with outrage, maintaining a running commentary on the suggested management of every approaching vehicle.
Her hat today is a singularly jolly affair, a straw saucer-like contraption swathed in old yellow ribbons that look suspiciously like used crepe bandages, causing her head to take on the appearance of a badly wrapped parcel.
Settling into her routine, Mrs Fledgler is standing at the caravan sink on a pair of pale, puffy ankles, dabbing at her drab, voluminous draws with some diluted travel wash, conscious of being a picture of ‘English Holiday Respectability.’ She pegs her sagging apparel on to an improvised line, thus marking out Fledgler territory from those of less worthy disposition.
Mr Fledgler is dozing uneasily in a deckchair, emitting ominous rumblings as the gases from three forced helpings of dubious looking beef and carrot stew jostle and vie for space in the confines of his small intestine.
Suddenly there is s loud rustle, and a trio of two sheep and a ram make a guest appearance on site, having escaped from a neighbouring field. The ram cautiously and with precision, lifts the remains of Mr Fledgler’s egg and tomato sandwich, but becomes overly excited at the sight of the bright khaki green nylon slacks and, watched by his admiring posse, gives Mr Fledgler’s left lower leg a deep nibble.
The poor man awakes with a start and gravitates 45% into an upright position, bloodshot eyes at an exact level with the rams, whilst simultaneously relinquishing a deep belch.
Horrified, the ram turns 180% and bolts for its life but unfortunately gets its horns caught on Mrs Fledgler’s hanging draws, and heads off in an utter panic with them held aloft, like a partially inflated sail.
Two tipsy, bandy- legged elderly men give chase gamely, but suffer a severe and simultaneous collision with the farmer’s collie, which has just arrived at its best ever top speed of 34.5 mph, in frenzied pursuit of the escapees. As the dog gets its wind back, the sheep trio, like the three stooges, head speedily off towards the town centre.
Our poor Mrs Fledgler is left murmuring little moue’s of distress, for stitched neatly into the back seam of the bloomers are the letters, Mrs F. Fledgler, 9 Beaver Crescent, SE1......