I wasn’t sure if it was a question or an accusation so I hedged my bets by answering with a vague smile.
“Bognor,” he went on, “you had a little ‘ut on the prom?”
“Yes,” I said, “that was me. That was a long time ago.”
“We still got it the picture you did. It’s in the loft somewhere.”
“Oh well, at least you didn’t throw it away,” I said.
“The wife nearly did. She said I looked alright in it but you made ‘er look too young. I wouldn’t let ‘er chuck it though so it’s in the loft somewhere.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” I said.
“You never know I said to ’er, it might be worth something one day.”
“When I’m dead you mean?” I joked, “I hope the mice don’t eat it first.”
“The mice in your loft.”
Just then his wife approached. “Do you know who this is?” he asked her. Before she could reply he went on, "‘e’s the artist."
“What artist?” she asked, looking at me with a vague smile of confusion.
“‘E done our picture,” he told her, “you didn’t like it of you. Remember? On the sea-front Bognor?"
“What picture? When?” she asked looking at me closely.
“The one in the loft,” he said, “rolled up. ‘E’s the artist.”
Suddenly it dawned on her, “Oh that! No, I didn’t like it. Sorry. Yes, it’s in the loft somewhere.”
“I hope the mice don’t eat it.” I said.
“What mice?” she asked.
“Oh, you know,” I said, “lofts sometimes have mice in them.”
“I don’t think you’ll find any mice in our loft,” she said sounding quite annoyed.
“He told me we had mice in the loft too,” said her husband as they both walked off without even a goodbye.
Later on when I was thinking it over I realised that I didn't care about the picture being in the loft but being in the loft 'somewhere'? Well, that hurt a bit.
I hope they have got mice in the loft and I hope the mice eat the picture or even better make a nice comfortable nest out of it.