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Sally Morten

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Browning Out

‘Hey Bill.’
‘How ya doin’? Surf’s up in Wales, teletext says three to six feet.’
He’s one of the few people in Nottingham who know this.
‘I’m fine thanks, you off to Wales then?’
‘Nah, I’m thinking of browning out. Wanna come?’
‘What’s browning out?’
‘You climb over the lido wall, after it’s closed, get naked and go
for a swim. You up for it?’
‘No. Thanks. How’s your mum?’
‘She’s fine, fine, doin’ a bit of paintin’, art an’ stuff.’
‘How’s your job?’
‘Borin’ I’ve got to get a master plan.’
‘Following the perfect wave didn’t work out then?’
‘Nah, I’m fifty next year, I’ve gotta start thinking about a career.
Sure you’re not up for browning out?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I’m thinking of going to Mexico next week.’
‘That’ll be nice.’
‘Yeah, got a cheap deal, seat on the wing.’
‘Well, have a good time if I don’t see you.’
‘Thanks, I’ve gotta go, need to check out the waves in Porthcawl.’

 

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