If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Alf's dining table waited for him on the other side of the room. Like the old hag's, it was round, but much smaller and with only two chairs. The white tablecloth was clean and the cutlery neat and shiny. A vase with roses adorned the table's centre. Before the waitress left him, he whispered in her ear, "Who is the charming lady at the head table?"

"That is Madam Styles," she whispered back.

"Can you introduce me to her?"

"Oh, no, Sir. It is she who invites guests to dine with her."

"Thank you. No need to bring the menu. I'll have two large beefsteaks, almost raw. And water with ice on the rocks." He'd drunk enough alcohol. Ahead loomed business and he needed his wits about him.

The waitress hurried off and Alf turned his attention to the two tough guys standing at Madam Styles sides. They carried bulging muscles and poorly disguised guns under their jackets. He'd have to be on his guard.

But it was the Styles women who interested him. She must be about fifty, he thought, ten years younger than her brother at The Stables. She was short and skinny, with pointy jutting joints. Her face was small, her features irregular and saggy, dominated by the hawk nose and a flat chin. Her colouring was pale, and tightly curled hair, dark and flecked with grey, crowned her head like a fuzzy bathing cap.

She wore a black evening gown and a loose wrap with some bright lining and fur on the hem. Around her scrawny neck hung a string of pearls, and she carried a fan. She'd just thrown the wrap, as if carelessly, over her coat-hanger shoulders.

But there was a proud line in her thin neck. She oozed society, culture, wealth, and aloofness. Alf hadn't forgotten she planned to take control of Ye Olde Inn in two days and saw now that he ought to do something to prevent it. A grim person like her didn't belong at the cheery Stables. If he could mix business with pleasure, save the inn from the clutches of her cadaverous fingers and make a fortune while doing it, what could be more satisfying?

Alf gave no heed to the house rules and swaggered across the room toward her table. "Lord Ponsenby," he said elegantly, and bowed.

The waitress rushed to Alf's side and curtsied to Madam Styles. "I'm sorry, Madam, I told him not to come."

"Go about your business!" snapped Madam Styles. "I'll take care of you later. My men will deal with this."

One of the bodyguards detached from the wall and stepped briskly between Alf and the table. He was a head shorter than Alf but broad as a bus and wore his hair in a pigtail.

"Escort him back to his own table!" said Madam Styles.

Alf resisted the impulse to frown. She'd said those few words not so much as a direct command, but more as a challenge. She wanted to see how he would react to a physical threat, and the prospect of a tussle thrilled her.

The bodyguard grabbed Alf's elbow. His grip was firm, intended to hurt, but Alf didn't budge. "I don't wish to cause a scene, my good lady," he said. "I simply wish to give my compliments to the most exquisite and refined woman I have ever set eyes on."

She blushed and fanned her face.

"If you send me away you'll break my heart."

"Get moving," said the guard, obviously itching for a fight. When Alf still resisted, the guard balled his fist and slammed it into Alf's stomach.

If Alf hadn't tensed his stomach muscles, he would have doubled in pain. As it happened, the punch only tickled him. "Excuse me a moment," he said to Madam Styles with a slight dip of his head.

The bodyguard had yanked his fist back, ready to smash it into Alf's face. With the speed, agility, and strength that came with hours of physical training each day, Alf gave the bodyguard a powerful straight-fingered jab into the tender hollow of his armpit. The bodyguard's eyes popped open, his jaw slackened, and he stopped breathing. Like a felled tree, he toppled sideways, slowly at first and then crashed to the floor.

The other bodyguard lurched forward, gun in his hand. But Madam Styles waved him away and glared at Alf with a look of hunger in her eyes.

"He'll be paralysed down one side of his body for about a half-hour," said Alf. "Then he'll be fine again." He gazed around the dining room. The oldies gaped at the ruckus, but none of them appeared worried. It obviously wasn't the first time they'd witnessed a commotion.

Standing to attention and facing Madam Styles, Alf clicked his heels and mounted an expression of hurt on his face. "Since madam is so insistent on my leaving, I have no choice but to return to my own desolate table. Please accept my apologies for this rude intrusion into your privacy, and please don't be hard on the waitress, she has done nothing wrong." With that, he whirled about.

"One moment!"

Alf turned back.

"Miss Styles," she lisped, accentuating the Miss, and sent him a faded smile. "Be my guest."

Alf sat and the waitress served his steaks, two slabs of meat, oozing blood. He gulped his food while holding the conversation going with this foul woman. It was clear she wanted to chat. She spoke of her four husbands, dead, all of them, and of her loneliness. As the meal continued, their natter became more relaxed.

"It is delightful to find such a charming dinner partner," said Alf, and gazed warmly at her.

"Oh, you flatter me, my lord," she answered bashfully and lowered her eyes.
Between all of her wrinkles, Alf could he could see that she blushed. But then she uncoiled her back, and a businesslike look of interest replaced the shyness. "Why would a distinguished Lord like yourself wish to stay at a hotel like this? You realise that most of our guests are pensioners who live here until they pass away?"

"I came because I hear rumours that you stage an excellent game of poker at your hotel. High stakes, I understand."

Madam Styles raised her eyebrows. "And whom have you heard these rumours from?"

"Ah, I shouldn't like to involve any of my friends. Secrecy is the safest policy."

"I would imagine," said Madam Styles, lowering her head and studying Bert's face, "that if there were such a gambling enterprise as you mention, only an established member could recommend a new member for consideration. Do you know any such person?"

"No. As I said, I've been out of the country and only have rumours to go on. Of course, those rumours could all be poppycock. In which case I'll settle my bill and leave without delay."
 
Part 30:
In this post: Madam Styles invites Alf to a ballroom dance…
 
A wave of regret washed across Madam Styles features, but she soon recovered. "Later this evening we clear away the tables to make a ballroom in here. Our modest orchestra is admirable. Do you dance?"

"Ah, yes, Madam. I like to swing. Give me Jailhouse Rock and my feet fly into action."

Madam Styles laughed. It sounded like a donkey braying. "I was thinking of something a little more sedately, something a little closer."

"I can waltz. That has a pleasant rhythm." Alf raised his arms and swung an imaginary partner. "One, two, three; one, two three: De dah dah de dah, boom boom, boom boom." Lowering his arms, he bunched his clenched fists on the table and shook his head. "But I don't much care for the foxtrot or any of the other stiff styles." In truth, he didn't know how to dance any of the other styles, but he couldn't admit to that. He leaned forward and whispered. "I like to keep the really close dancing for between the sheets." He winked and noticed the blush of excitement in her cheeks.

"Then we're two of a kind," said Madam Styles.

"Yes. Shame about the poker though. I like nothing better than the company of a fine woman, and a good game of poker."

Madam Styles studied him a moment, but obviously liked what she saw. "Alright. Just this once I'll break my own rules and let you play. But my two men here will hang on your shoulder all evening." All trace of friendliness vanished from her face. "At the slightest suspicion of treachery, they'll stop your dancing for ever."
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Alf sat comfortably in his dreams a while longer, then drew a deep bath of steaming hot water. With a glass of wine balanced on the tub's side, he soaked until his skin wrinkled. Then he jumped up and stroked the stubble on his chin. By now, it had grown long enough to hide his scars and was the perfect macho length to set him off as a virile hombre.

Once again dressed in his fine suit, he drained the last drops of wine into his glass and swaggered around his apartment. Placed at the back of the hotel, he could see a fair-sized garden from his window with plenty of trees and benches for the elderly to sit among the flowerbeds. Further away, he made out a small car park. The cars were few, but expensive.

His stomach rumbled. The wine had not only gone to his head but also made him starving. Luckily, the restaurant was now open. He hoped there was a bloody beefsteak on the menu.

With his broad shoulders back, brawny chest out, and bearded chin high, he strolled down to the dining room and glanced in. Most of the dinners were old cronies, but there was also a sprinkling of beautiful women, correctly garbed, and distinguished-looking gentlemen.

Their laughter sounded pleasantly above the subdued strains of an orchestra. Many of them glanced up to regard Alf. Their eyes rested on him for that well-bred moment that marks acceptance. "One of themselves," said Alf to himself.

Well, why not? Once again he glanced at his reflection in the hall mirror. There might be handsomer men present in this hotel, but was there anyone who wore his clothes better? Hardly. Swinging his arms and taking wide steps to draw attention, he strutted into the room.

A meticulously dressed waitress in black and white received him and showed him to a side table. As they passed an elaborately large round table with only one woman seated there, Alf paused. She was an old hag with a hawk nose, who sat with her back to the wall and had a full view of the room. Two stout men, one on each side, stood at a respectful distance from her: bodyguards?

She reminded him of a scarecrow, but she wore flashy gold and diamond jewellery, and her perfume smelled heavenly. Alf winked playfully at her, and caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

Alf's own table waited for him on the other side of the room. Like the old hag's, it was round, but much smaller and with only two chairs. The white tablecloth was clean and the cutlery neat and shiny. A vase with roses adorned the table's centre. Before the waitress left him, he whispered in her ear, "Who is the charming lady at the head table?"

"That is Madam Styles," she whispered back.

"Can you introduce me to her?"

"Oh, no, Sir. It is she who invites guests to dine with her."

"Thank you. No need to bring the menu. I'll have two large beefsteaks, almost raw. And water on the rocks." He'd drunk enough alcohol. Ahead loomed business and he needed his wits about him.

The waitress hurried off and Alf turned his attention to the two tough guys standing at Madam Styles sides. They carried bulging muscles and poorly disguised guns under their jackets. He'd have to be on his guard.

But it was the Styles women who interested him. She must be about fifty, he thought, ten years younger than her brother at The Stables. She was short and skinny, with pointy jutting joints. Her face was small, her features irregular and saggy, dominated by the hawk nose and a flat chin. Her colouring was pale, and tightly curled hair, dark and flecked with grey, crowned her head like a fuzzy bathing cap.

She wore a black evening gown and a loose wrap with some bright lining and fur on the hem. Around her scrawny neck hung a string of pearls, and she carried a fan. She'd just thrown the wrap, as if carelessly, over her coat-hanger shoulders.

But there was a proud line in her thin neck. She oozed society, culture, wealth, and aloofness. Alf hadn't forgotten she planned to take control of Ye Olde Inn in two days and saw now that he ought to do something to prevent it. A grim person like her didn't belong at the cheery Stables. If he could mix business with pleasure, save the inn from the clutches of her cadaverous fingers and make a fortune while doing it, what could be more satisfying?

Alf gave no heed to the house rules and swaggered across the room toward her table. "Lord Ponsenby," he said elegantly, and bowed.

The waitress rushed to Alf's side and curtsied to Madam Styles. "I'm sorry, Madam, I told him not to come."

"Go about your business!" snapped Madam Styles. "I'll take care of you later. My men will deal with this."

One of the bodyguards detached from the wall and stepped briskly between Alf and the table. He was a head shorter than Alf but broad as a bus and wore his hair in a pigtail.

"Escort him back to his own table!" said Madam Styles.

Alf resisted the impulse to frown. She'd said those few words not so much as a direct command, but more as a challenge. She wanted to see how he would react to a physical threat, and the prospect of a tussle thrilled her.

The bodyguard grabbed Alf's elbow. His grip was firm, intended to hurt, but Alf didn't budge. "I don't wish to cause a scene, my good lady," he said. "I simply wish to give my compliments to the most exquisite and refined woman I have ever set eyes on."

She blushed and fanned her face.

"If you send me away you'll break my heart."

"Get moving," said the guard, obviously itching for a fight. When Alf still resisted, the guard balled his fist and slammed it into Alf's stomach.

If Alf hadn't tensed his stomach muscles, he would have doubled in pain. As it happened, the punch only tickled him. "Excuse me a moment," he said to Madam Styles with a slight dip of his head.

The bodyguard had yanked his fist back, ready to smash it into Alf's face. With the speed, agility, and strength that came with hours of physical training each day, Alf gave the bodyguard a powerful straight-fingered jab into the tender hollow of his armpit. The bodyguard's eyes popped open, his jaw slackened, and he stopped breathing. Like a felled tree, he toppled sideways, slowly at first and then crashed to the floor.

The other bodyguard lurched forward, gun in his hand. But Madam Styles waved him away and glared at Alf with a look of hunger in her eyes.

"He'll be paralysed down one side of his body for about a half-hour," said Alf. "Then he'll be fine again." He gazed around the dining room. The oldies gaped at the ruckus, but none of them appeared worried. It obviously wasn't the first time they'd witnessed a commotion.

Standing to attention and facing Madam Styles, Alf clicked his heels and mounted an expression of hurt on his face. "Since madam is so insistent on my leaving, I have no choice but to return to my own desolate table. Please accept my apologies for this rude intrusion into your privacy, and please don't be hard on the waitress, she has done nothing wrong."
With that, he whirled about.
 
Part 29:
In this post: Alf threatens to settle his bill and leave…
 
"One moment!"

Alf turned back.

"Miss Styles," she lisped, accentuating the Miss, and sent him a faded smile. "Be my guest."

Alf sat and the waitress served his steaks. He gulped his food while holding the conversation going with this foul woman. It was clear she wanted to chat. She spoke of her four husbands, all dead for many years, and of her loneliness. As the meal continued, their natter became more relaxed.

"It is delightful to find such a charming dinner partner," said Alf, and gazed warmly at her.

"Oh, you flatter me, my lord," she answered bashfully and lowered her eyes.

Between all of her wrinkles, Alf could he could see that she blushed. But then she uncoiled her back, and a businesslike look of interest replaced the shyness. "Why would a distinguished Lord like yourself wish to stay at a hotel like this? You realise that most of our guests are pensioners who live here until they pass away?"

"I came because I hear rumours that you stage an excellent game of poker at your hotel. High stakes, I understand."

Madam Styles raised her eyebrows. "And whom have you heard these rumours from?"

"Ah, I shouldn't like to involve any of my friends. Secrecy is the safest policy."

"I would imagine," said Madam Styles, lowering her head and studying Bert's face, "that if there were such a gambling enterprise, only an established member could recommend a new member for consideration. Do you know any such person?"

"No. As I said, I've been out of the country and only have rumours to go on. Of course, those rumours could all be poppycock. In which case I'll settle my bill and leave without delay."
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Alf dropped into a fine leather armchair and surveyed the airy room with a pleased expression. It reminded him of period plays he'd seen on television, almost Victorian in its grandeur. At long last I've found my right place in life, he thought and poured himself wine. Unused to alcohol, it warmed his insides and his toes began to tap to a silent beat. In a while, he would take a slow, luxurious bath, and later have some fun.

There came a light tap on the door. "Enter," he called.

A maid placed a tray with his sandwiches on a low table by his side. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"Yes. Come and share a glass of wine with me!"

A look of horror spread across the maid's face. "Oh, no, Sir, I couldn't possibly. Madam Styles would give me the sack immediately."

"Bit of a dragon, is she?"

With a hurried curtsy, the maid spun and fled from the room. Alf stretched his long legs, lifted them onto a Moroccan pouf, threw one leg over the other, and leant back in the snug chair. He hoped there were some fine women staying at The Hotel California who didn't dread Madam Styles, so he could impress them with his charm. Women were the spice of life, no matter if you were poor or rich.

He sat comfortably in his dreams a while longer, then drew a deep bath of steaming hot water. With the glass of wine balanced on the tub's side, he soaked until his skin wrinkled. Then he jumped up and stroked the stubble on his chin. By now, it had grown long enough to hide his scars and was the perfect macho length to set him off as a virile hombre.

Once again dressed in his fine suit, he drained the last drops of wine into his glass and swaggered around his apartment. Placed at the back of the hotel, he could see a fair-sized garden from his window with plenty of trees and benches for the elderly to sit among the flowerbeds. Further away, he made out a small car park. The cars were few, but expensive.

His stomach rumbled. The wine had not only gone to his head but also made him starving. Luckily, the restaurant was now open. He hoped there was a bloody beefsteak on the menu.

With his broad shoulders back, brawny chest out, and bearded chin high, he strolled down to the dining room and glanced in. Most of the dinners were old cronies, but there was also a sprinkling of beautiful women, correctly garbed, and distinguished-looking gentlemen.

Their laughter sounded pleasantly above the subdued strains of an orchestra. Many of them glanced up to regard Alf. Their eyes rested on him for that well-bred moment that marks acceptance. "One of themselves," said Alf to himself.

Well, why not? Once again he glanced at his reflection in the hall mirror. There might be handsomer men present in this hotel, but was there anyone who wore his clothes better? Hardly. Swinging his arms and taking wide steps to draw attention, he strutted into the room.

A meticulously dressed waitress in black and white received him and showed him to a side table. As they passed an elaborately large round table with only one woman seated there, Alf paused. She was an old hag with a hawk nose, who sat with her back to the wall and had a full view of the room. Two stout men, one on each side, stood at a respectful distance from her: bodyguards?

She reminded him of a scarecrow, but she wore flashy gold and diamond jewellery, and her perfume smelled heavenly. Alf winked playfully at her, and caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

Alf's own table waited for him on the other side of the room. Like the old hag's, it was round, but much smaller and with only two chairs. The white tablecloth was clean and the cutlery neat and shiny. A vase with roses adorned the table's centre. Before the waitress left him, he whispered in her ear, "Who is the charming lady at the head table?"

"That is Madam Styles," she whispered back.

"Can you introduce me to her?"

"Oh, no, Sir. It is she who invites guests to dine with her."

"Thank you. No need to bring the menu. I'll have two large beefsteaks, almost raw. And water on the rocks." He'd drunk enough alcohol. Ahead loomed business and he needed his wits about him.

The waitress hurried off and Alf turned his attention to the two tough guys standing at Madam Styles sides. They carried bulging muscles and poorly disguised guns under their jackets. He'd have to be on his guard.

But it was the Styles women who interested him. She must be about fifty, he thought, ten years younger than her brother at The Stables. She was short and skinny, with pointy jutting joints. Her face was small, her features irregular and saggy, dominated by the hawk nose and a flat chin. Her colouring was pale, and tightly curled hair, dark and flecked with grey, crowned her head like a fuzzy bathing cap.

She wore a black evening gown, a loose wrap with some bright lining and fur on the hem, a string of pearls, and carried a fan. She'd just thrown the wrap, as if carelessly, over her coat-hanger shoulders.

But there was a proud line in her scrawny neck. She oozed society, culture, wealth, and aloofness. Alf hadn't forgotten she planned to take control of Ye Olde Inn in two days and saw now that he ought to do something to prevent it. A grim person like her didn't belong at the cheery Stables. If he could mix business with pleasure, save the inn from the clutches of her cadaverous fingers and make a fortune while doing it, what could be more satisfying?

Alf gave no heed to the house rules and swaggered across the room toward her table. "Lord Ponsenby," he said elegantly, and bowed.

The waitress rushed to Alf's side and curtsied to Madam Styles. "I'm sorry, Madam, I told him not to come."

"Go about your business!" snapped Madam Styles. "I'll take care of you later. My men will deal with this."

One of the bodyguards detached from the wall and stepped briskly between Alf and the table. He was a head shorter than Alf but broad as a bus and wore his hair in a pigtail.

"Escort him back to his own table!" said Madam Styles.

Alf resisted the impulse to frown. She'd said those few words not so much as a direct command, but more as a challenge. She wanted to see how he would react to a physical threat, and the prospect of a tussle thrilled her.

The bodyguard grabbed Alf's elbow. His grip was firm, intended to hurt, but Alf didn't budge. "I don't wish to cause a scene, my good lady," he said. "I simply wish to give my compliments to the most exquisite and refined woman I have ever set eyes on."

She blushed and fanned her face.

"If you send me away you'll break my heart."

"Get moving," said the guard, obviously itching for a fight. When Alf still resisted, the guard balled his fist and slammed it into Alf's stomach.
 
Part 28:
In this post: Alf has a tussle with bodyguards…
 
If Alf hadn't tensed his stomach muscles, he would have doubled in pain. As it happened, the punch only tickled him. "Excuse me a moment," he said to Madam Styles with a slight dip of his head.

The bodyguard had yanked his fist back, ready to smash it into Alf's face. With the speed, agility, and strength that came with hours of physical training each day, Alf gave the bodyguard a powerful straight-fingered jab into the tender hollow of his armpit. The bodyguard's eyes popped open, his jaw slackened, and he stopped breathing. Like a felled tree, he toppled sideways, slowly at first and then crashed to the floor.

The other bodyguard lurched forward, gun in his hand. But Madam Styles waved him away and glared at Alf with a look of hunger in her eyes.

"He'll be paralysed down one side of his body for about a half-hour," said Alf. "Then he'll be fine again." He gazed around the dining room. The oldies gaped at the ruckus, but none of them appeared worried. It obviously wasn't the first time they'd witnessed a commotion.

Standing to attention and facing Madam Styles, Alf clicked his heels and mounted an expression of hurt on his face. "Since madam is so insistent on my leaving, I have no choice but to return to my own desolate table. Please accept my apologies for this rude intrusion into your privacy, and please don't be hard on the waitress, she has done nothing wrong."

With that, he whirled about.
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
A young maid set off past the reception desk, and Alf followed, taking more notice now of his surroundings. The air reeked of old people and their half rotting bodies, blended with the stink of stale cigar smoke and furniture wax. He saw dark panelled walls, a massive grandfather clock, rough oak floorboards, giant vases full of pampas grass and pots full of cheese plants.
 
"My bags were delayed at the airport," he said to the maid. "Probably because of the elephant rifle. I wish to spend a few days roaming in England's magnificent nature, enjoy the company of the fair sex," he winked at her, "and play a few good rounds of poker. Not necessarily in that order."

Obviously used to eccentrics, the maid offered no comment and skipped up a short flight of deeply carpeted stairs. When they reached number three, she opened the door and curtsied. "Here we are, Sir. If there's anything you need, just ring down to reception."

"Thank you, young lady," he said and stroked her fatherly on the chin. "I would like a bottle of your best red wine and a large plate full of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches. I'm thirsty and hungry after my long journey, so make the sandwiches thick."

The maid curtsied again and returned with the bottle almost immediately. "Dinner is served from eight in the dining room," she said, "and the tearoom is open until four. Breakfast from six in the morning in the tearoom. I'll be right back with the sandwiches."

"Thank you," he said charmingly, gave her a thumbs up, tugged down his jacket sleeves, and closed the door behind her. So far, so good.

He dropped into a fine leather armchair and surveyed the airy room with a pleased expression. It reminded him of period plays he'd seen on television, almost Victorian in its grandeur. At long last I've found my right place in life, he thought and poured himself wine. Unused to alcohol, it warmed his insides and his toes began to tap a silent beat. In a while, he would take a slow, luxurious bath, and later have some fun.

There came a light tap on the door. "Enter," he called.

The maid placed a tray with his sandwiches on a low table by his side. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"Yes. Come and share a glass of wine with me!"

A look of horror spread across the maid's face. "Oh, no, Sir, I couldn't possibly. Madam Styles would give me the sack immediately."

"Bit of a dragon, is she?"

With a hurried curtsy, the maid spun and fled from the room. Alf stretched his long legs, lifted them onto a Moroccan pouf, threw one leg over the other, and leant back in the snug chair. He hoped there were some fine women staying at The Hotel California who didn't dread Madam Styles, so he could impress them with his charm. Women were the spice of life, no matter if you were poor or rich.

He sat comfortably in his dreams a while longer, then drew a deep bath of steaming hot water. With the wine glass balanced on the tub's side, he soaked until his skin wrinkled. Then he jumped up and stroked the stubble on his chin. By now, it had grown long enough to hide his scars and was the perfect macho length to set him off as a virile hombre.

Once again dressed in his fine suit, he drained the last drops of wine into his glass and swaggered around his apartment. Placed at the back of the hotel, he could see a fair-sized garden from his window with plenty of trees and benches for the elderly to sit among the flowerbeds. Further away, he made out a small car park. The cars were few, but expensive.

His stomach rumbled. The wine had not only gone to his head but also made him starving. Luckily, the restaurant was now open. He hoped there was a bloody beefsteak on the menu.

With his broad shoulders back, brawny chest out, and bearded chin high, he strolled down to the dining room and glanced in. Most of the dinners were old cronies, but there was also a sprinkling of beautiful women, correctly garbed, and distinguished-looking gentlemen.

Their laughter sounded pleasantly above the subdued strains of an orchestra. Many of them glanced up to regard Alf. Their eyes rested on him for that well-bred moment that marks acceptance. "One of themselves," said Alf to himself.

Well, why not? Once again he glanced at his reflection in the hall mirror. There might be handsomer men present in this hotel, but was there anyone who wore his clothes better? Hardly. Swinging his arms and taking wide steps to draw attention, he strutted into the room.

A meticulously dressed waitress in black and white received him and showed him to a side table. As they passed an elaborately large round table with only one woman seated there, Alf paused. She was an old hag with a hawk nose, who sat with her back to the wall and had a full view of the room. Two stout men, one on each side, stood at a respectful distance from her; bodyguards?

She reminded him of a scarecrow, but she wore flashy gold and diamond jewellery, and her perfume smelled heavenly. Alf winked playfully at her, and caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

Alf's own table waited for him on the other side of the room. Like the old hag's, it was round, but much smaller and with only two chairs. The white tablecloth was clean and the cutlery neat and shiny. A vase with roses adorned the table's centre. Before the waitress left him, he whispered in her ear, "Who is the charming lady at the head table?"

"That is Madam Styles," she whispered back.

"Can you introduce me to her?"

"Oh, no, Sir. It is she who invites guests to dine with her."

"Thank you. No need to bring the menu. I'll have two large beefsteaks, almost raw. And water on the rocks." He'd drunk enough alcohol. Ahead loomed business and he needed his wits about him.

The waitress hurried off and Alf turned his attention to the two tough guys standing at Madam Styles sides. They carried bulging muscles and poorly disguised guns under their jackets. He'd have to be on his guard.

But it was the Styles women who interested him. She must be about fifty, he thought, ten years younger than her brother at The Stables. She was short and skinny, with pointy jutting joints. Her face was small, her features irregular and saggy, dominated by the hawk nose and flat chin. Her colouring was pale, and grey strands streaked her dark hair.

She wore a black evening gown and a string of pearls, carried a fan, and a loose wrap with some bright lining and fur on the hem. She'd just thrown it, as if carelessly, over her bony shoulders, and tightly curled hair crowned her head like a fuzzy bathing cap.

But there was a proud line in her scrawny neck. She oozed society, culture, wealth, and aloofness. Alf hadn't forgotten she planned to take control of Ye Olde Inn in two days and saw now that he ought to do something to prevent it. If he could mix business with pleasure, save the inn from the clutches of her cadaverous fingers and make a fortune while doing it, what could be more satisfying?
 
Part 27:
In this post: Alf introduces himself to Madam Styles and she breaks his heart…
 
Alf gave no heed to the house rules and swaggered across the room toward her table. "Lord Ponsenby," he said elegantly, and bowed.

The waitress rushed to Alf's side and curtsied to Madam Styles. "I'm sorry, Madam, I told him not to come."

"Go about your business!" snapped Madam Styles. "I'll talk to you later. My men will take care of this."

One of the bodyguards detached from the wall and stepped briskly between Alf and the table. He was a head shorter than Alf but broad as a bus and wore his hair in a pigtail.

"Escort him back to his own table!" said Madam Styles.

Alf resisted the impulse to frown. She'd said those few words not so much as a direct command, but more as a challenge. She wanted to see how he would react to a physical threat, and the prospect of a tussle thrilled her.

The bodyguard grabbed Alf's elbow. His grip was firm, intended to hurt, but Alf didn't budge. "I don't wish to cause a scene, my good lady," he said. "I simply wish to give my compliments to the most exquisite and refined woman I have ever set eyes on."

She blushed and fanned her face.

"If you send me away you'll break my heart."

"Get moving," said the guard, obviously itching for a fight. When Alf still resisted, the guard balled his fist and slammed it into Alf's stomach.
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Confident and elegant in his new clothes, Alf sailed boldly across the hotel's cobbled forecourt. The uniformed boy held the door open for him without a hint of questioning. A girl behind a reception desk smiled as pleasantly and impersonally at him as she did to the whiskered, fine-looking old gentleman who had arrived just before him.

"I say young chap," he said to Bert. "Your tie is a trifle loose."

Bert strolled to a big mirror that stood beyond the desk on a wall that separated the tearoom from the dining room. Again, his calloused fingers found difficulty with the tie. The fine-looking old gentleman, adjusting his own tie, stepped closer.

"Beg pardon, Sir. May I assist you?"

Bert smiled grateful consent.

The old gentleman fumbled a moment with the tie. "I think that's better," he said. He bowed as one man of the world might to another and turned away.
It was then Bert noticed a short, portly fellow standing at a respectful distance behind his shoulder. His dark suit was crisp but worn; his hair well combed but thin.

"I am the manager, Sir. At your service."

"Ah, excellent," said Bert, trying to speak posh but not fully succeeding. It sounded more like his native cockney, spoken with a mouth full of marbles. "My name is Lord Ponsenby, recently returned from the colonies, and would like to spend a few days here. The airport lost my luggage, but they'll be along with it shortly."

"You walked here, Sir?"

"Not all the way from the airport, no, but I told the taxi-driver to drop me off some way away. I'm a firm believer in exercise." He patted the side of his battered nose and lowered his voice. "I understand you run an excellent game of poker here."

"Hotel California is a home for the elderly, Sir. Most of the residence check in for life; and the only way they can leave is in a coffin." He patted the side of his own nose. "If you know what I mean."

"I only require a room for a few days," said Alf. "I'm in perfect health and hoping for a bit of sport."

The manager smiled at him politely. "Yes, we have a suite vacant." He waved to one of his staff, a pretty young maid dressed in a smart uniform. "Show this gentleman to suite number three," he instructed. "One of our finest," he said to Alf and held his hand out for a tip.

Alf smacked it. "Low five," he said, and the manager's eyes popped wide.

The young maid set off past the reception desk, and Alf followed, taking more notice now of his surroundings. He saw dark panelled walls, a massive grandfather clock, rough oak floorboards, giant vases full of pampas grass and pots full of cheese plants. The air reeked of old people and their half rotting bodies, blended with the stink of stale cigar smoke and furniture wax.

"My bags were delayed at the airport," he said to the maid. "Probably because of the elephant rifle. I wish to spend a few days roaming in England's magnificent nature, enjoy the company of the fair sex, and play a few good rounds of poker. Not necessarily in that order."

Obviously used to eccentrics, the maid offered no comment and skipped up a short flight of deeply carpeted stairs. When they reached number three, she opened the door and curtsied. "Here we are, Sir. If there's anything you need, just ring down to reception."

"Thank you, young lady," he said and stroked her fatherly on the chin. "I would like a bottle of your best red wine and a large plate full of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches. I'm thirsty and hungry after my long journey, so make the sandwiches thick."

The maid curtsied again and returned with the bottle almost immediately. "Dinner is served from eight in the dining room," she said, "and the tearoom is open until four. Breakfast from six in the morning in the tearoom. I'll be right back with the sandwiches."

"Thank you," he said charmingly, gave her a thumbs up, tugged down his jacket sleeves, and closed the door behind her. So far, so good.

He dropped into a fine leather armchair and surveyed the airy room with a pleased expression. It reminded him of period plays he'd seen on television, almost Victorian in its grandeur. At long last I've found my right place in life, he thought and poured himself wine. Unused to alcohol, it warmed his insides and his toes began to tap to a silent beat. In a while, he would take a slow, luxurious bath, and later have some fun.

There came a light tap on the door. "Enter," he called.

The maid placed a tray with his sandwiches on a low table by his side. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"Yes. Come and share a glass of wine with me."

A look of horror spread across the maid's face. "Oh, no, Sir, I couldn't possibly. Madam Styles would give me the sack immediately."

"Bit of a dragon, is she?"

With a hurried curtsy, the maid spun and fled from the room. Alf stretched his long legs, lifted them onto a Moroccan pouf, threw one leg over the other, and leant back in the snug chair. He hoped there were some fine women staying at The Hotel California who didn't dread Madam Styles, so he could impress them with his charm. Women were the spice of life, no matter if you were poor or rich.

He sat comfortably in his dreams a while longer, then drew a deep bath of steaming hot water. With the wine glass balanced on the tub's side, he soaked until his skin wrinkled. Then he jumped up and stroked the stubble on his chin. By now, it had grown long enough to hide his scars and was the perfect macho length.

Once again dressed in his fine suit, he drained the last drops of wine into his glass and swaged around his apartment. Placed at the back of the hotel, he could see a fair-sized garden from his window with plenty of trees and benches for the elderly to sit among the flowerbeds. Further away, he made out a small car park. The cars were few, but expensive.

His stomach rumbled. The wine had not only gone to his head but also made him starving. Luckily, the restaurant was now open. He hoped there was a bloody beefsteak on the menu.

With his broad shoulders back, brawny chest out, and bearded chin high, he strolled down to the dining room and glanced in. Most of the dinners were old cronies, but there was also a sprinkling of beautiful women, correctly garbed, and distinguished-looking gentlemen.

Their laughter sounded pleasantly above the subdued strains of an orchestra. Many of them glanced up to regard Alf. Their eyes rested on him for that well-bred moment that marks acceptance. "One of themselves," said Alf to himself.

Well, why not? Once again he glanced at his reflection in the hall mirror. There might be handsomer men present in this hotel, but was there anyone who wore his clothes better? Hardly. Swinging his arms and taking wide steps to draw attention, he strutted into the room.

A meticulously dressed waitress in black and white received him and showed him to a side table. As they passed an elaborately large round table with only one woman seated there, Alf paused. She was an old bag with a hawk nose, who sat with her back to the wall and had a full view of the room. Two stout men, one on each side, stood at a respectful distance from her; bodyguards?

She reminded him of a scarecrow, but she wore flashy gold and diamond jewellery, and her perfume smelled heavenly. Alf winked playfully at her, and he caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes.
 
Part 26:
In this post: Alf sees Madam Styles for the first time and asks for an introduction…
 
Alf's own table waited for him on the other side of the room. Like the old hag's, it was round, but much smaller and with only two chairs. The white tablecloth was clean and the cutlery neat and shiny. A vase with roses adorned the table's centre. Before the waitress left him, he whispered in her ear, "Who is the charming lady at the head table?"

"That is Madam Styles," she whispered back.

"Can you introduce me to her?"

"Oh, no, Sir. It is she who invites guests to dine with her."

"Thank you. No need to bring the menu. I'll have a large beefsteak, almost raw. And water on the rocks." He'd drunk enough alcohol. Ahead loomed business and he needed his wits about him.

The waitress hurried off and Alf turned his attention to the two tough guys standing at Madam Styles sides. They carried bulging muscles and poorly disguised guns under their jackets. He'd have to be on his guard.

But it was the Styles women who interested him. She must be about fifty, ten years younger than her brother at The Stables. She was short and skinny, with jutting joints. Her face was small, her features irregular and saggy, dominated by the hawk nose and flat chin. Her colouring was pale, and grey strands streaked her dark hair.

She wore a black evening gown and a string of pearls, and carried a fan, and a loose wrap with some bright lining, and fur on the hem, which she'd just thrown, as if carelessly, over her bony shoulders. There was a proud line in her scrawny neck, and tightly curled hair crowned her head like a fuzzy bathing cap.

She oozed society, culture, wealth, and aloofness. Alf hadn't forgotten she planned to take control of Ye Olde Inn in two days. If he could mix business with pleasure, save the inn and make a fortune while doing it, what could be more satisfying?
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
The further Alf strutted, the hungrier he became. If the heavens didn't soon give him nourishment, it would go out over his health. On a normal morning by this time he would have been for a long jog, pumped a mass of iron, and eaten one of Sibyl's huge breakfasts in the Cloud mansion's kitchen.

But he didn't miss any of that, not today, and he put a spring in his step. He'd kept to the country lanes, but now the town drew near. Cracked footpaths appeared on each side of the road. Traffic signs warned of a low speed limit, faded markings in the road defined lanes and parking rules. A building site on his left displayed massive posters for a new housing estate; lorries and bulldozers chugged in and out, raising a choking dust.

The first buildings consisted mainly of shabby terraced houses, with front doors opening straight onto the pavement. Traffic built up, horns tooted, bicycles and kids on skateboards swished past. At each roundabout or traffic-light controlled junction he sheered this way and that, sure of his destination.

But he didn't need to reach the town's centre and remained on the outskirts. Just past a busy petrol station and at the end of a tree-lined side avenue, he spotted The Hotel California.

The hotel was a miserable, square, brick building, its drab walls rising straight from a broad forecourt. Regularly placed windows, four on each side of the entrance, five on the three floors above, glared at him. Like sunken black eyes, blank and impersonal, they spied on him with bemused curiosity.

A black Daimler glided to a stop in front of the hotel and a uniformed doorman threw open the limousine door. An elderly gentleman stepped out and the doorman handed him a ticket. Alf heard him say, "Number of you car, Sir."

The gentleman slipped a coin into the doorman's outstretched hand. Then the doorman swung the hotel door wide open and bowed as the aging gentleman staggered through.

Bert brushed himself down, stretched to his full height, stroked the stubble on his chin, and strolled to the front door. He didn't know how the doorman would react when he arrived on foot, but now he needed to behave like a lord, because for the next few days he planned to live like one.

Confident and elegant in his new clothes, he sailed boldly across the hotel's cobbled forecourt. The uniformed boy held the door open for him without a hint of questioning. A girl behind a reception desk smiled as pleasantly and impersonally at him as she did to the whiskered, fine-looking old gentleman who had arrived just before him.

"I say young chap," he said to Bert. "Your tie is a trifle loose."

Bert strolled to a big mirror that stood beyond the desk on a wall that separated the tearoom from the dining room. Again, his calloused fingers found difficulty with the tie. The fine-looking old gentleman, adjusting his own tie, stepped closer.

"Beg pardon, Sir. May I assist you?"

Bert smiled grateful consent.

The old gentleman fumbled a moment with the tie. "I think that's better," he said. He bowed as one man of the world might to another and turned away.
It was then Bert noticed a short, portly fellow standing at a respectful distance behind his shoulder. His dark suit was crisp but worn; his hair well combed but thin.

"I am the manager, Sir. At your service."

"Ah, excellent," said Bert, trying to speak posh but not fully succeeding. It sounded more like his native cockney, spoken with a mouth full of marbles. "My name is Lord Ponsenby, recently returned from the colonies, and would like to spend a few days here. The airport lost my luggage, but they'll be along with it shortly."

"You walked here, Sir?"

"Not all the way from the airport, no, but I told the taxi-driver to drop me off some way away. I'm a firm believer in exercise." He patted the side of his battered nose and lowered his voice. "I understand you run an excellent game of poker here."

"Hotel California is a home for the elderly, Sir. Most of the residence check in for life; and the only way they can leave is in a coffin." He patted the side of his own nose. "If you know what I mean."

"I only require a room for a few days," said Alf. "I'm in perfect health and hoping for a bit of sport."

The manager smiled at him politely. "Yes, we have a suite vacant." He waved to one of his staff, a pretty young maid dressed in a smart uniform. "Show this gentleman to suite number three," he instructed. "One of our finest," he said to Alf and held his hand out for a tip.

Alf smacked it. "Low five," he said, and the manager's eyes popped wide.

The young maid set off past the reception desk, and Alf followed, taking more notice now of his surroundings. He saw dark panelled walls, a massive grandfather clock, rough oak floorboards, giant vases full of pampas grass and pots full of cheese plants. The air reeked of old people and their half rotting bodies, blended with the stink of stale cigar smoke and furniture wax.

"My bags were delayed at the airport," he said to the maid. "Probably because of the elephant rifle. I wish to spend a few days roaming in England's magnificent nature, enjoy the company of the fair sex, and play a few good rounds of poker. Not necessarily in that order."

Obviously used to eccentrics, the maid offered no comment and skipped up a short flight of deeply carpeted stairs. When they reached number three, she opened the door and curtsied. "Here we are, Sir. If there's anything you need, just ring down to reception."

"Thank you, young lady," he said and stroked her fatherly on the chin. "I would like a bottle of your best red wine and a large plate full of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches. I'm thirsty and hungry after my long journey, so make the sandwiches thick."

The maid curtsied again and returned with the bottle almost immediately. "Dinner is served from eight in the dining room," she said, "and the tearoom is open until four. Breakfast from six in the morning in the tearoom. I'll be right back with the sandwiches."

"Thank you," he said charmingly, gave her a thumbs up, tugged down his jacket sleeves, and closed the door behind her. So far, so good.

He dropped into a fine leather armchair and surveyed the airy room with a pleased expression. It reminded him of period plays he'd seen on television, almost Victorian in its grandeur. At long last I've found my right place in life, he thought and poured himself wine. Unused to alcohol, it warmed his insides and his toes began to tap to a silent beat. In a while, he would take a slow, luxurious bath, and later have some fun.

There came a light tap on the door. "Enter," he called.

The maid placed a tray with his sandwiches on a low table by his side. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"Yes. Come and share a glass of wine with me."

A look of horror spread across the maid's face. "Oh, no, Sir, I couldn't possibly. Madam Styles would give me the sack immediately."

"Bit of a dragon, is she?"

With a hurried curtsy, the maid spun and fled from the room. Alf stretched his long legs up onto a Moroccan pouf, threw one leg over the other, and leant back in the snug chair. He hoped there were some fine women staying at The Hotel California who didn't dread Madam Styles, so he could impress them with his charm. Women were the spice of life, no matter if you were poor or rich.
 
Part 25:
In this post: Ready for a beef steak, Alf makes an entrance to the restaurant…
 
He sat comfortably in his dreams a while longer, then drew a deep bath of steaming hot water. With the wine glass balanced on the tub's side, he soaked until his skin wrinkled. Then he jumped up and stroked the stubble on his chin. By now, it had grown long enough to hide his scars and was the perfect macho length.

Once again dressed in his fine suit, he drained the last drops of wine into his glass and swaged around his apartment. Placed at the back of the hotel, he could see a fair-sized garden from his window with plenty of trees and benches for the elderly to sit among the flowerbeds. Further away, he made out a small car park. The cars were few, but expensive.

His stomach rumbled. The wine had not only gone to his head but also made him starving. Luckily, the restaurant was now open. He hoped there was a bloody beef steak on the menu.

With his broad shoulders back, brawny chest out, and bearded chin high, he strolled down to the dining room and glanced in. Most of the dinners were old cronies, but there was also a sprinkling of beautiful women, correctly garbed, and distinguished-looking gentlemen.

Their laughter sounded pleasantly above the subdued strains of an orchestra. Many of them glanced up to regard Alf. Their eyes rested on him for that well-bred moment that marks acceptance. "One of themselves," said Alf to himself.

Well, why not? Once again he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. There might be handsomer men present in this hotel, but was there anyone who wore his clothes better? Hardly. Swinging his arms and taking wide steps to draw attention, he strutted into the room.

A meticulously dressed waitress in black and white received him and showed him to a side table. As they passed an elaborately large round table with only one woman seated there, Alf paused. She was an old bag with a hawk nose, who sat with her back to the wall and had a full view of the room. Two stout men, one on each side, stood at a respectful distance from her; bodyguards?

She reminded him of a scarecrow, but she wore flashy gold and diamond jewellery, and her perfume smelled heavenly. Alf winked playfully at her, and he caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes.
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
The further Alf strutted, the hungrier he became. If the heavens didn't soon give him nourishment, it would go out over his health. On a normal morning by this time he would have been for a long jog, pumped a mass of iron, and eaten one of Sibyl's huge breakfasts in the Cloud mansion's kitchen.

But he didn't miss any of that, not today, and he put a spring in his step. He'd kept to the country lanes, but now the town drew near. Cracked footpaths appeared on each side of the road. Traffic signs warned of a low speed limit, faded markings in the road defined lanes and parking rules. A building site on his left displayed massive posters of a new housing estate; lorries and bulldozers chugged in and out, raising a choking dust.

The first buildings consisted mainly of shabby terraced houses, with front doors opening straight onto the pavement. Traffic built, horns tooted, bicycles and kids on skateboards swished past. He sheered this way and that at each roundabout or traffic-light controlled junction, confident of his destination.

But he didn't need to reach the town's centre and remained on the outskirts. Just past a busy petrol station and at the end of a tree-lined side avenue, he spotted The Hotel California.

The hotel was a miserable, square, brick building, its drab walls rising straight from a broad forecourt. Regularly placed windows, four on each side of the entrance, five on the three floors above, glared at him. Like sunken black eyes, blank and impersonal, they spied on him with bemused curiosity.

A black Daimler glided to a stop in front of the hotel and a uniformed doorman threw open the limousine door. An elderly gentleman stepped out and the doorman handed him a ticket. Alf heard him say, "Number of you car, Sir."

The gentleman slipped a coin into the doorman's outstretched hand. Then the doorman swung the hotel door wide open and bowed as the aging gentleman staggered through.

Bert brushed himself down, stretched to his full height, stroked the stubble on his chin, and strolled to the front door. He didn't know how the doorman would react when he arrived on foot, but now he needed to behave like a lord, because for the next few days he planned to live like one.

Confident and elegant in his new clothes, he sailed boldly across the hotel's cobbled forecourt. The uniformed boy held the door open for him without a hint of questioning. A girl behind a reception desk smiled as pleasantly and impersonally at him as she did to the whiskered, fine-looking old gentleman who had arrived just before him.

"I say young chap," he said to Bert. "Your tie is a trifle loose."

Bert strolled to a big mirror that stood beyond the desk on a wall that separated the tearoom from the dining room. Again, his calloused fingers found difficulty with the tie. The fine-looking old gentleman, adjusting his own tie, stepped closer.

"Beg pardon, Sir. May I assist you?"

Bert smiled grateful consent.

The old gentleman fumbled a moment with the tie. "I think that's better," he said. He bowed as one man of the world might to another and turned away.
It was then Bert noticed a short, portly fellow standing at a respectful distance behind his shoulder. His dark suit was crisp but worn; his hair well combed but thin.

"I am the manager, Sir. At your service."

"Ah, excellent," said Bert, trying to speak posh but not fully succeeding. It sounded more like his native cockney, spoken with a mouth full of marbles. "My name is Lord Ponsenby, recently returned from the colonies, and would like to spend a few days here. The airport lost my luggage, but they'll be along with it shortly."

"You walked here, Sir?"

"Not all the way from the airport, no, but I told the taxi-driver to drop me off some way away. I'm a firm believer in exercise." He patted the side of his battered nose and lowered his voice. "I understand you run an excellent game of poker here."

"Hotel California is a home for the elderly, Sir. Most of the residence check in for life; and the only way they can leave is in a coffin." He patted the side of his own nose. "If you know what I mean."

"I only require a room for a few days," said Alf. "I'm in perfect health and hoping for a bit of sport."

The manager smiled at him politely. "Yes, we have a suite vacant." He waved to one of his staff, a pretty young maid dressed in a smart uniform. "Show this gentleman to suite number three," he instructed. "One of our finest," and held his hand out for a tip.

Alf smacked it. "Low five," he said, and the manager's eyes popped wide.

The young maid set off past the reception desk, and Alf followed, taking more notice now of his surroundings. He saw dark panelled walls, a massive grandfather clock, rough oak floorboards, giant vases full of pampas grass and pots full of cheese plants. The air reeked of old people and their half rotting bodies, blended with the stink of stale cigar smoke and furniture wax.

"My bags were delayed at the airport," he said to the maid. "Probably because of the elephant rifle. I wish to spend a few days roaming in England's magnificent nature and playing a few good rounds of poker."

Obviously used to eccentrics, the maid gave no comment and skipped up a short flight of deeply carpeted stairs. When they reached number three, she opened the door and curtsied. "Here we are, Sir. If there's anything you need, just ring down to reception."

"Thank you, young lady," he said and stroked her fatherly on the chin. "I would like a bottle of your best red wine and a large plate full of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches. I'm thirsty and hungry after my long journey, so make the sandwiches thick."

The maid curtsied again and returned with the bottle almost immediately. "Dinner is served from eight in the dining room," she said, "and the tearoom is open until four. Breakfast from six in the morning in the tearoom. I'll be right back with the sandwiches."

"Thank you," he said charmingly, gave her a thumbs up, tugged down his jacket sleeves, and closed the door behind her. So far, so good.
 
Part 24:
In this post: Alf puts his feet up…
 
He dropped into a fine leather armchair and surveyed the airy room with a pleased expression. It reminded him of period plays he'd seen on television, almost Victorian in its grandeur. At long last I've found my right place in life, he thought and poured himself wine. Unused to alcohol, it warmed his insides and his toes began to tap to a silent beat. In a while, he would take a slow, luxurious bath, and later have some fun.

There came a light tap on the door. "Enter," he called.

The maid placed a tray with his sandwiches on a low table by his side. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"Come and share a glass of wine with me."

A look of horror spread across the maid's face. "Oh, no, Sir, I couldn't possibly. Madam Styles would give me the sack immediately."

"Bit of a dragon, is she?"

With a hurried curtsy, the maid spun and fled from the room. Alf stretched his long legs up onto a Moroccan pouf, threw one leg over the other, and leant back in the snug chair. He hoped there were some fine women staying here who didn't dread Madam Styles, so he could impress them with his charm. Women were the spice of life, no matter if you were poor or rich.
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
When Alf woke the next morning, he wrinkled his nose and realised he needed a thorough wash. If he was to act the gentleman, he couldn't walk around stinking like a tramp. Luckily, a meagre stream trickled past the hut, but with barely enough water to sop his face and armpits.

On the other side of the stream, flanking a field of yellow rape, lavender plants and colourful tulips grew wild in a tangle of blackberry thorns. Alf remembered his parents telling him that before the war, farmers cultivated commercial flowers in their fields. These scraggy examples were all that remained.

Praising his luck, Alf stripped off and rubbed handfuls of lavender leaves over every inch of his body. The feminine scent didn't match his macho physic, but it masked his stench of decay. Soon, in his hotel room, he'd take a proper bath with soap, shampoo, and a good drenching of Old Spice aftershave.

Twenty minutes later, adorned in the suit, Alf stared at himself in a cracked and tarnished mirror that hung on a wall. Silk socks, heavy and gleaming, snugly encased his ankles, and the reflection in his shoes almost outdid the mirror. That the trousers were a wee bit short mattered little. If he danced, by chance, trousers shouldn't be too long.

The plaited whiteness of the shirt enthralled him; as he breathed, the soft material gave freely, comfortably. Its collar strangled him though, and he had to retie the knot in his tie seven times before satisfied.

The waistcoat stretched tight across his chest and flapped loosely around his waist, but not a poor fit. And the coat accentuated his already broad shoulders, offsetting the trousers lack of length. He carried the suit straight as a penguin. "Lord Alf," he muttered. "Welcome to the world."

Cheerfully, he donned his bowler, swung his cane, and strolled off across the countryside. All he desired now was a substantial breakfast, but his motto had always been not to worry about the future. And that was looking rosy.

The longer he strutted, the hungrier he became. If the heavens didn't soon give him nourishment, it would go out over his health. On a normal morning by this time he would have been for a long jog, pumped a mass of iron, and eaten one of Sibyl's huge breakfasts in the Cloud mansion's kitchen.

But he didn't miss any of that, not today, and he put a spring in his step. He'd kept to the country lanes, but now the town drew near. Cracked footpaths appeared on each side of the road. Traffic signs warned of a low speed limit, faded markings in the road defined lanes and parking rules. A building site on his left displayed massive posters of a new housing estate; lorries and bulldozers chugged in and out, raising a choking dust.

The first buildings consisted mainly of shabby terraced houses, with front doors opening straight onto the pavement. Traffic built, horns tooted, bicycles and kids on skateboards swished past. He sheered this way and that at each roundabout or traffic-light controlled junction, confident of his destination.

But he didn't need to reach the town's centre and remained on the outskirts. Just past a busy petrol station and at the end of a tree-lined side avenue, he spotted The Hotel California.

The hotel was a miserable, square, brick building, its drab walls rising straight from a broad forecourt. Regularly placed windows, four on each side of the entrance, five on the three floors above, glared at him. Like sunken black eyes, blank and impersonal, they spied on him with bemused curiosity.

A black Daimler glided to a stop in front of the hotel and a uniformed doorman threw open the limousine door. An elderly gentleman stepped out and the doorman handed him a ticket. Alf heard him say, "Number of you car, Sir."

The gentleman slipped a coin into the doorman's outstretched hand. Then the doorman swung the hotel door wide open and bowed as the gentleman staggered through.

Bert brushed himself down, stretched to his full height, stroked the stubble on his chin, and strolled to the front door. He didn't know how the doorman would react when he arrived on foot, but now he needed to behave like a lord, because for the next few days he planned to live like one.

Confident and elegant in his new clothes, he sailed boldly across the hotel's cobbled forecourt. The uniformed boy held the door open for him without a hint of questioning. A girl behind a reception desk smiled as pleasantly and impersonally at him as she did to the whiskered, fine-looking old gentleman who had arrived just before him.

"I say young chap," he said to Bert. "Your tie is a trifle loose."

Bert strolled to a big mirror that stood beyond the desk on a wall that separated the tearoom from the dining room. Again his calloused fingers found difficulty with the tie. The fine-looking old gentleman, adjusting his own tie, stepped closer.

"Beg pardon, Sir. May I assist you?"

Bert smiled grateful consent.

The old gentleman fumbled a moment with the tie. "I think that's better," he said. He bowed as one man of the world might to another and turned away.

It was then Bert noticed a short, portly fellow standing at a respectful distance behind his shoulder. His dark suit was crisp but worn; his hair well combed but thin.

"I am the manager, Sir. At your service."

"Ah, excellent," said Bert, trying to speak posh but not fully succeeding. It sounded more like his native cockney, spoken with a mouth full of marbles. "My name is Lord Ponsenby, recently returned from the colonies, and would like to spend a few days here. The airport lost my luggage, but they'll be along with it shortly."

"You walked here, Sir?"

"Not all the way from the airport, no, but I told the taxi-driver to drop me off some way away. I'm a firm believer in exercise." He patted the side of his battered nose and lowered his voice. "I understand you run an excellent game of poker here."

"Hotel California is a home for the elderly, Sir. Most of the residence check in for life; and the only way they can check out again is in a coffin." He patted the side of his own nose. "If you know what I mean."

"I only require a room for a few days," said Alf. "And I'm in perfect health."

The manager smiled at him politely. "Yes, we have a suite vacant." He waved to one of his staff, a pretty young maid dressed in a smart uniform. "Show this gentleman to suite number three," he instructed. "One of our finest," and held his hand out for a tip.

Alf smacked it. "Low five," he said, and the manager's eyes popped wide.
 
Part 23:
In this post: Alf orders a feast…
 
The young maid set off past the reception desk, and Alf followed, taking more notice now of his surroundings. He saw dark panelled walls, a massive grandfather clock, rough oak floorboards, giant vases full of pampas grass and pots full of cheese plants. The air reeked of old people and their half rotting bodies, blended with the stink of stale cigar smoke and furniture wax.

"My bags were delayed at the airport," he said to the maid. "Probably because of the elephant rifle. I wish to spend a few days roaming in England's magnificent nature and playing a few good rounds of poker."

Without comment, obviously used to eccentrics, the maid skipped up a short flight of deeply carpeted stairs. When they reached number three, she opened the door and curtsied. "Here we are, sir. If there's anything you need, just ring down to reception."

"Thank you, young lady," he said and stroked her fatherly on the chin. "I would like a bottle of your best red wine and a large plate full of crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches. I'm thirsty and hungry after my long journey, so make the sandwiches thick."

The maid curtsied again and returned with the bottle almost immediately. "Dinner is served from eight in the dining room," she said, "and the tearoom is open until four. Breakfast from six in the morning in the tearoom. I'll be right back with the sandwiches."

Alf gave her a thumbs up, tugged down his jacket sleeves, and closed the door behind her. So far, so good.
 
To be continued…
 
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously…
 
Soon, far from people, Alf came across a small cattle shed that suited his needs. It sagged crookedly, abandoned and neglected. The door stuck ajar on broken hinges, and as he dragged it wide enough to squeeze in, three mice scurried out. It smelled dank, and the roof loomed open to the stars. But it offered a safe and regal haven without fear of discovery. Tonight, that was all he required.

He hung his new set of clothes over a beam in the roof and settled on a mound of old but dry straw in one corner. He couldn't have wished for a more comfortable bed. He folded his hands over his chest and sighed blissfully. If his luck held, he wouldn't regret taking time off from work.

A full moon smiled at him through the hole in the roof, and birds flitted across its face. Or were they bats? Alf couldn't tell. Either way, the effect was enchanting, spoiled only by an itch that was spreading all over his body.

To take his mind from the irritating sensation, he envisioned his next few days. This close to London, no township was far away, and the closest of them embraced the Hotel California. Tonight he would share his bed of rough straw with rodents and creeping bugs. Tomorrow night he would sleep in a king-size bed, and who knows what delights he might share it with.

When he woke the next morning, he realised he needed a thorough wash. If he was to act the gentleman, he couldn't walk around stinking like a tramp. Luckily, a meagre stream trickled past the hut, but with barely enough water to sop his face and armpits.

On the other side of the stream, flanking a field of yellow rape, lavender plants and colourful tulips grew wild in a tangle of blackberry thorns. Alf remembered his parents telling him that before the war, farmers cultivated commercial flowers in their fields. These scraggy examples were all that remained.

Praising his luck, Alf stripped off and rubbed handfuls of lavender leaves over every inch of his body. The feminine scent didn't match his macho physic, but it masked his stench of decay. Soon, in his hotel room, he'd take a proper bath with soap, shampoo, and a good drenching of Old Spice aftershave.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in the suit, Alf stared at himself in a cracked and tarnished mirror that hung on a wall. Silk socks, heavy and gleaming, snugly encased his ankles, and the reflection in his shoes almost outdid the mirror. That the trousers were a wee bit short mattered little. If he danced, by chance, trousers shouldn't be too long.

The plaited whiteness of the shirt enthralled him; as he breathed, the soft material gave freely, comfortably. Its collar strangled him though, and he had to retie the knot in his tie seven times before satisfied.

The waistcoat stretched tight across his chest and flapped loosely around his waist, but not a poor fit. And the coat accentuated his already broad shoulders, offsetting the trousers lack of length. He carried the suit straight as a penguin. "Lord Alf," he muttered. "Welcome to the world."

Cheerfully, he donned his bowler, swung his cane, and strolled off across the countryside. All he desired now was a substantial breakfast, but his motto had always been not to worry about the future. And that was looking rosy.

The longer he strutted, the hungrier he became. If the heavens didn't soon give him nourishment, it would go out over his health. On a normal morning by this time he would have been for a long jog, pumped a mass of iron, and eaten one of Sibyl's huge breakfasts in the Cloud mansion's kitchen.

But he didn't miss any of that, not today, and he put a spring in his step. He'd kept to the country lanes, but now the town drew near. Cracked footpaths appeared on each side of the road. Traffic signs warned of a low speed limit, faded markings in the road defined lanes and parking rules. A building site on his left displayed massive posters of a new housing estate; lorries and bulldozers chugged in and out, raising a choking dust.

The first buildings consisted mainly of shabby terraced houses, with front doors opening straight onto the pavement. Traffic built, horns tooted, bicycles and kids on skateboards swished past. He sheered this way and that at each roundabout or traffic light controlled junction, confident of his destination.

But he didn't need to reach the town's centre and remained on the outskirts. Just past a busy petrol station and at the end of a tree-lined side avenue, he spotted The Hotel California.

The hotel was a miserable, square brick building, its drab walls rising straight from a broad forecourt. Regularly placed windows, four on each side of the entrance, five on the three floors above, glared at him. Like sunken black eyes, blank and impersonal, they spied on him with bemused curiosity.

A black Daimler glided to a stop in front of the hotel and a uniformed doorman threw open the limousine door. An elderly gentleman stepped out and the doorman handed him a ticket. Alf heard him say, "Number of you car, Sir."

The gentleman slipped a coin into the doorman's outstretched hand. Then the doorman swung the hotel door wide open and bowed as the gentleman staggered through.

Bert brushed himself down, stretched to his full height, stroked the stubble on his chin, and strolled to the front door. He didn't know how the doorman would react when he arrived on foot, but now he needed to behave like a lord, because for the next few days he planned to live like one.
 
Part 22:
In this post: Alf checks in at the Hotel California…
 
Confident and elegant in his new clothes, he sailed proudly to the hotel's front door. The uniformed boy held it open for him without a hint of questioning. A girl behind a reception desk smiled as pleasantly and impersonally at him as she did to the whiskered, fine-looking old gentleman who had arrived just before him.

"I say young chap," he said to Bert. "Your tie is a trifle loose."

Bert strolled to a big mirror that stood beyond the desk on a wall that separated the tea room from the dining room. His clumsy fingers found difficulty with the tie. The fine-looking old gentleman, adjusting his own tie, stepped closer.

"Beg pardon, Sir. May I assist you?"

Bert smiled grateful consent.

The old gentleman fumbled a moment with the tie. "I think that's better," he said. He bowed as one man of the world might to another and turned away.

It was then Bert noticed a short, portly fellow standing at a respectful distance behind his shoulder. His dark suit was crisp but worn; his hair well combed but thin.

"I am the manager, Sir. At your service."

"Ah, excellent," said Bert, trying to speak posh but not fully succeeding. It sounded more like his native cockney, spoken with a mouth full of marbles. "My name is Lord Ponsenby, recently returned from the colonies, and would like to spend a few days here. The airport lost my luggage, but they'll be along with it shortly."

"You walked here, Sir?"

"Not from the airport, no, but I told the taxi-driver to drop me off some way away. I'm a firm believer in exercise." He patted the side of his battered nose and lowered his voice. "I understand you run an excellent game of poker here."

"Hotel California is a home for the elderly, Sir. Most of the residence check in for life; and the only way they can check out again is in a coffin." He patted the side of his own nose. "If you know what I mean."

"I only require a room for a few days," said Alf. "And I'm in perfect health."

The manager smiled at him politely. "Yes, we have a suite vacant." He waved to one of his staff, a pretty young maid dressed in a smart uniform. "Show this gentleman to suite number three," he instructed. "One of our finest," and held his hand out for a tip.

Alf smacked it. "Low five," he said, and the manager's eyes popped wide.
 
To be continued…
 
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published.
 
#3: Gamblers who Cheat ® James Field.
Previously... 
Of course, Alf knew his cockney accent would give him away, but then again, not all toffs spoke like the royal family. Posture and bearing were more important, and the confidence to pose as an eccentric millionaire. He'd need to concoct a believable background history too, but he had all night, and by the morning he'd be ready.

One thing was clear; if he were to feign his way into The Hotel California, and have them accept him as an eccentric millionaire, then he would need luck on his side. In his experience, luck was with you, or against you, and the difference either made you or broke you. Some people relied on their horoscope to tell their future, others on signs like finding a four-leaf clover, but Alf preferred to go by the trend.

As a test of his luck, he sneaked back to the main road where he'd abandoned the stolen scooter on the grass verge. There was little traffic this late in the evening and it rushed past smoothly. Sure enough, the scooter had vanished, relieving him of the original theft.

With his tummy full, providence on his side, and somebody else to take the blame for stealing the scooter, Alf strutted back to his den. Now, if his good fortune held, he didn't doubt he'd soon make a killing at the hotel's poker tables, and his heart raced with anticipation.

But as the sun dipped below the treetops and darkness fell, he set off to wander again. Somewhere or another he needed to find a roof over his head for the night. If worse came to the worse, he'd break into a barn someplace and sleep in the hay: one final night of blissful serenity.

Soon, far from people, he came across a small cattle shed that suited his needs. It sagged crookedly, abandoned and neglected. The door stuck ajar on broken hinges, and as he dragged it wide enough to squeeze in, three mice scurried out. It smelled dank, and the roof loomed open to the stars. But it offered a safe and regal haven without fear of discovery. Tonight, that was all he required.

He hung his new set of clothes over a beam in the roof and settled on a mound of old but dry straw in one corner. He couldn't have wished for a more comfortable bed. He folded his hands over his chest and sighed blissfully. If his luck held, he wouldn't regret taking time off from work.

A full moon smiled at him through the hole in the roof, and birds flitted across its face. Or were they bats? Alf couldn't tell. Either way, the effect was enchanting, spoiled only by his skin that had begun to itch.

To take his mind from the irritating sensation of something crawling over his skin, he envisioned his future situation. This close to London, no township was far away, and the closest of them embraced the Hotel California. Tonight he would share his bed of rough straw with rodents and creeping bugs. Tomorrow night he would sleep in a king-size bed, and who knows what delights he might share it with.

When he woke the next morning, he realised he needed a thorough wash. If he was to act the gentleman, he couldn't walk around stinking like a tramp. Luckily, a meagre stream trickled past the hut, but with barely enough water to sop his face and armpits.

On the other side of the stream, flanking a field of yellow rape, lavender plants and colourful tulips grew wild in a tangle of blackberry thorns. Alf remembered his parents telling him that before the war, farmers cultivated commercial flowers in their fields. These scraggy examples were all that remained.

Praising his luck, Alf stripped off and rubbed handfuls of lavender leaves over every inch of his body. The feminine scent didn't match his macho physic, but it covered his stench of decay. Soon, in his hotel room, he'd take a proper bath with soap, shampoo, and a good drenching of Old Spice aftershave.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in the suit, Alf stared at himself in a cracked and tarnished mirror that hung on a wall. Silk socks, heavy and gleaming, snugly encased his ankles, and the reflection in his shoes almost outdid the mirror. That the trousers were a wee bit short mattered little. If he danced, by chance, trousers shouldn't be too long.

The plaited whiteness of the shirt enthralled him; the soft material gave freely, comfortably, as he breathed. Its collar strangled him though, and he had to retie the knot in his cravat seven times before satisfied.

The waistcoat stretched tight across the chest and flapped loosely around his waist, but not a poor fit. And the coat accentuated his already broad shoulders, offsetting the trouser's lack of length. He carried the suit straight as a penguine. "Lord Alf," he muttered. "Welcome to the world."

Cheerfully, he donned his bowler, swung his cane, and strolled off across the countryside. All he desired now was a substantial breakfast, but his motto had always been not to worry about the future. And that was looking rosy.
 
Part 20:
In this post: Alf arrives at his hotel by foot, buy wished it were by liousine...

The longer he strutted, the hungrier he became. If the heavens didn't soon give him nourishment, it would go out over his health. On a normal morning by this time he would have been for a long jog, pumped a mass of iron, and eaten one of Sibyl's huge breakfasts in the Cloud mansion's kitchen.

He'd kept to the country lanes, but now the town drew near. Cracked footpaths started on each side of the road. Traffic signs warned of a low speed limit, faded markings in the road defined lanes and parking rules. A building site on his left displayed massive posters of a new housing estate; lorries and bulldozers chugged in and out, raising a choking dust.

The first buildings consisted mainly of shabby terraced houses, with front doors opening straight onto the pavement. Traffic built, horns tooted, bicycles and kids on skateboards swished past. He sheered this way and that at each roundabout or traffic light controlled junction, confident of his destination.

But he remained on the town's outskirts and didn't need to reach the centre. Just past a busy petrol station and at the end of a tree-lined side avenue, he spotted The Hotel California.

The hotel was a miserable, square brick building, its drab walls rising straight from the pavement. Regularly placed windows, four on each side of the entrance, five on the three floors above, glared at him. Like sunken black eyes, blank and impersonal, they spied on him with bemused curiosity.

A black Daimler glided to a stop in front of the hotel and a uniformed doorman threw open the limousine door. An elderly gentleman stepped out and the doorman handed him a ticket. Alf heard him say, "Number of you car, Sir."

The gentleman slipped a coin into the doorman's outstretched hand and then the doorman swung the hotel door wide open and bowed as the gentleman staggered through.

Bert brushed himself down, stretched to his full height, stroked the stubble on his chin, and strolled to the front door. He didn't know how the doorman would react when he arrived on foot, but now he needed to behave like a lord, because for the next few days he planned to live like one.
 
To be continued…
 
 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.

Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-