I pot the straight pink.

My opponent graciously shakes my hand; his team mates point and jeer and roll around laughing at the somewhat unexpected result. I do what I have been dying to do for the entire frame – I rush for the toilet like a charging werbeniuk.

Throwing open the door to the main part of the club I am greeted by a startling sight.

We are being raided by the police!!!

Two policewomen stand in the hallway. I screech to a halt in shock. There is a short pause whilst I work out what to say.

“Hullo,” I decide upon. “I didn’t see you come in?”

“No,” replies one of the uniformed ladies. “We sneaked in through the back entrance.”

I am one of those people who only ever thinks of funny things to say after the event. Witty rejoinders just aren’t my thing. Unfortunately, my brain picks this time, this one time, to start experimenting with this particular talent. I wish it wouldn’t do things like this.

“Ah. I’m always trying that but my other half isn’t having any of it.”

There is a long and rather pointed silence, like I’ve just been introduced to the Lubbocks at a dinner party and absent-mindedly greeted them with a cheery ‘Awright!’

“Is the owner in, please?”

I haven’t switched on Top of the Pops for fifteen years or so, just in case Bryan Adams is still at number one with his fucking Robin Hood song.

Radio-wise I can receive KLFM (King’s Lynn), BBC Radio Norfolk and Lincs FM. None of which are cutting-edge in the tunes department.

Of course, there are the national BBC stations. Which really means Radio 2. (I don’t want to sound at all not-with-it, but Radio 1 just seems to play loud drum machines with people shouting).

My 56k modem precludes Internet Radio, and lack of public transport means that local gigs would be a sober experience. And I don’t do gigs sober, especially local ones.

And given that I’m a bit bored with my CD and record collection, I haven’t listened to much music recently.

This situation is been addressed, however, as my grandmother is giving me her piano. From now on, we shall be making our own entertainment!

It shall be like one of those period dramas, with guests conversing politely in the drawing room whilst Kate Winslet plonks away in the next room. Crossed with the Courage Best commercial, featuring Chas ‘n’ Dave.

I have already warned Short Tony about this, and he seems relaxed. The party wall between us is a rare example of 18th-century nanotechnology, and I was concerned that he would regard the introduction of a piano as a Cuban-missile-crisis-like escalation provoked by his young daughter’s recent violin lessons.

My only problem now is how to move it from Essex to Norfolk. It weighs about seventeen tons, and I need to do it on the cheap.

My first thought was to contact some medical students and convince them that I am organising a piano push, in aid of Comic Relief. However, I’m not sure the castors are up to it, and I’m wary about the level crossing at Littleport.

My mother has sourced a specialist removal person. He calls himself ‘The Piano Man’, which does imply some expertise in this area.

He’s up for it. I’m up for it.

The long winter evenings will never be the same.