The Village Pub is packed.

“It’s packed in here,” I remark observantly, pushing my way towards the bar with determination, but not with so much determination that I risk getting there before somebody notices me and offers to buy me a pint.

I settle in my Usual Preferred Place in a cramped fashion. Ray stands next to me at the bar, caressing a big glass of wine with eager yet tender hands. I do not usually mention Ray, for no particular reason, but what you need to know as a reader is that he is always in the Village Pub.

“Surprised to see you in here,” I remark, demonstrating the wit with which I am nationally and internationally renowned (nb hence the explanation above, as he is actually always in there, so I am being humorously ironic).

“Yes – I’ve actually moved in,” he replies.

I laugh politely at his sub-me sarcastic humour.

“No – I have actually moved in here,” he insists. “My house is damaged after the gales. So I told the insurance company that I was going to move in here, and they said ‘right-o'”.

I gape at him.

“My car’s a slight wreck as well,” he continues. “A bit of somebody’s roof fell on it.”

But I am not listening. He has moved in to the Village Pub!!! It is, like, his home!!! I am flabbergasted.

It seems to me that there are two types of people in the world. There are the 99.9521% of us who would have our house bashed up in a storm and who would live with it, being miserable in the cold and wet and TVless status quo. And there are the other 0.0479%, to whom it would occur to telephone the insurance company and demand that they are moved in to the Village Pub.

I grab my pint, looking at him with new respect.

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