Jasper is manifestly unimpressed
with the strip of tarmac
leading straight from his queen-size
into the steaming catacombs of the Underworld.
We regard him, downcast, gutted
that fifteen years of hard work
elicits nothing more than a noncommittal grunt.
'But we thought you'd like it,'
says Pam, welling up but trying to hide it
by holding a copy of Horse And Hounds
in front of her eyes. 'You were always
singing that bloody song, you know:
"Highway to Hell... Highway to Hell..."'
She trails off sadly.
Jasper scratches his bald spot.
'No,' he says. 'That was Ian.'