Italy beckons. I have been working so hard. Sunshine, a sun-lounger beside the pool and a good book … ecstasy.

Rucksack? Sun-glasses?

In the airport bookshop, I scour the recent fiction. A tempting cover, but … it is all shagging and shooting, so no. Next, some politically-tinged flub where ‘thinking’ means being angry about something. No, in italics. Pretentious, vulgar, unfunny, pseudo-arty and yet despite the apparent variety there is a strange ‘same-i-ness’ about them. They are somehow all deeply shallow. Chaff. W.S. Gilbert once asked the editor of Punch, ‘Are good articles sometimes sent in by the public?’ ‘Oh yes, lots,’ came the reply. ‘Then why not print some of them?’

The sun is clear and balmy. There are only a few of us around the pool at this remote bijou hotel. To my left are two English couples, mid-thirties, a trifle coarse-looking, but snoozing quietly … hands folded on well-fed tummies.

The book I doubtfully chose is unexciting and slightly supercilious, making much out of little; a money-spinner by a worn-out ‘professional’. Not the gold nugget the back cover promised.

My stubble-jowled neighbour stirs. ‘I think it’s time for a drink. Hayley, go and fetch us four iced beers.’

        ‘Aw,’ comes the reply, ‘it’s always me. It were the same when we was in Cuba. Every time you wanted … ’

‘Shut it girl. Just go and fetch ’em.’

        In a floppy white hat, short shorts and a tight top, Hayley pouts, but struggles to her feet.

        I wonder if she might return with only one beer or perhaps three and cause an entertaining tiff, but after ten minutes she reappears with four tall amber lagers and a selection of nibbles.

        ‘Thanks Fred,’ says the other oaf.

        ‘How about, “Thanks Hayley”?’ rasps Hayley.

        ‘Well I paid for ’em,’ explains Fred.

The other girl stops picking her teeth with a hair-grip. ‘You didn’t actually. Lloyd’s Bank paid.’

        The foursome all titter. Are they bank robbers?

My sun-hat half covers my face. I pretend to doze.

        Fred downs some ale before lying back again in his shorts and sandals. ‘Hey, Hayley, rub my tummy with this sun-tan lotion.’

        She stares at this broad expanse of flesh. ‘Do you think one bottle will be enough?’

        Fred throws her a wounded look and she giggles. At least she has some spirit in her. She kneels down and smears this wobbly pink blancmange with the white creamy liquid.

‘Lucky Mr Harris went “camping” in his back garden with his kids … a tent with a cable reeled out for the telly … popping back into the house for a shower … but giving Sally chance to “borrow” his keys.’

I am riveted. Here surely, is the opening to a good book?

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