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'Ouch,' said Periwig. 'Why do I always do that?'

'I don't know,' said Big Bob. 'But I do believe that I care.'

Periwig Tombs slid out from beneath the bus, upon the long tray affair with the castors. He was rubbing his head as he slid. It was a head of generous proportion. A lofty dome of a head. Sparsely sown with sandy hair and flanked with large protruding ears. Given the scale of such a head, one might have expected a goodly helping of facial featurings. But no, the nose was a stubby button, the eyes were small and squinty and the little kissy mouth seemed always in a pout. The neck that supported this head was of that order which is designated 'scrawny' and the body beneath was slim and lank and undersized and weedy. At school, fellow students who knew of the Eagle comic had christened him the Mekon.

Periwig Tombs eased himself into the vertical plane. Wiped his slender hands upon an oily rag, which increased their oiliness by precisely tenfold, and grinned kissily at Big Bob the tour guide.

'You have strawberry-milkshake stains on your tie,' he observed.

'And I wear them with pride,' said the big one. 'Wouldst thou care for a fresh spam sandwich?'

'No, but I'd care for an aspirin.'

The depot had a roster board with Big Bob's name upon it. Big Bob clocked in and consulted this board and then he tut-tut-tutted.

'Why do you triply tut?' asked Periwig Tombs, as he sought the tin of Swarfega.

'I tut for this roster,' said Big Bob, taking down his official cap from its official peg and placing it upon his head, which now made it official. 'I tut for the fact that upon this joy-filled bank holiday there is to be but one official tour of the borough and that this one tour has but six tourists booked in for it. Woe unto the house of Charker, for verily it will come to pass that small tour numbers mean small tips and small tips mean small beer.'

'Well, it's a dead'n, ain't it?' said Periwig Tombs, who having located the Swarfega tin was now at a loss as to how it would be opened. His puny hands being oh so oily and all.

'A dead'n?' quoth Big Bob. 'What meanest thou by this?'

'People don't want bus tours any more.' Periwig worried at the tin's lid with his teeth. 'Bus tours are old-fashioned. People can now sit in the comfort of their own homes, at their Mute Corp PCs, and take virtual trips around the globe on the World Wide Web. Ouch, there goes a filling.'

'I have read of this virtual tripping,' said Big Bob. 'But surely it can never replace the real thing.'

'Never replace the real thing?' Periwig gave Big Bob a long old-fashioned look of a type that was long out of fashion. 'You might choose to ignore progress, Big Bob, what with your Old-Testament-prophet-speak and everything, but the world has shifted on a bit since the start of the twenty-first century. People don't do anything much at all any more. It's all done for them. Press a button, call it up. Instant gratification.'

Big Bob shrugged his broad and now aforementioned shoulders. 'Firstly,' said he. 'I do not engage in Old-Testament-prophet-speak. I choose to speak in this manner, because I consider it to be the mark of my individuality. You and others too, including my wife, might consider this a studied eccentricity, the hallmark of the poseur. I respect your right to do this, regretting only that this right is abused when used in my presence. If you follow my meaning. Secondly, I do understand all about this virtual tripping business. We went to school together, didn't we? I studied at my Mute Corp teaching terminal, just the same as you. I am well aware that change occurs all around me, but I am not obliged to either approve or condone it. I would like things to stay as they are. Canst thou follow me on this?'

'I can,' said Periwig. 'And I mean no offence. You are a good man, Big Bob. But good men are many times ground under in this changing world around us. And if we don't do something to bring in some more tourists to the borough, we will both soon be out of a job. Yeah, verily, thus and so and things of that nature, generally.'

Big Bob took the oily tin from the hands of Periwig and popped off its lid. 'I am all too well aware of that too, my friend,' he said, 'and have been giving the matter some thoughts of my own. Would you care that I tell you about them?'

Periwig dug his fingers into the gorgeous green Swarfega. 'You now have some oil on your tie,' said he. 'But yes, I would be glad to hear of your thoughts.'

And so Big Bob let him hear them.

'My thoughts run this-a-ways,' said Big Bob, when the two of them had seated themselves upon ancient bus-seat deckchairs in the sunlight in the entrance of the shed. 'Magical History Tours are all well and good. They're all well and very good too, in my opinion. But, as the falling numbers indicate, they may well have had their day. People crave novelty. They crave excitement

'I could drive the bus somewhat faster,' said Periwig. Til bet I could get it up on two wheels at the corner by the Half Acre.'

Big Bob shook his baldy head, upon which rested his official cap. 'That would change the running time of the tour. I am not proposing change. Anything, in fact, other than change. I am suggesting a theme park.'

'A theme park?' Periwig stiffened in his deckchair. 'Here in Brentford? Have you taken leave of your senses? How much more change could you possibly have, than turning part of Brentford into a theme park?'

'Not part,' said Big Bob. 'All.'

'All? You are clearly bereft. Sit still while I phone for an ambulance.'

'I am proposing no changes at all,' said Big Bob, whose sober countenance suggested that he spoke the words of truth. 'When was the last time something new was built in Brentford? Don't answer, I will tell you, for I looked it up. Seventy-five years ago, the Electric Alhambra Cinema on the High Street.'

'I didn't know that Brentford had a cinema.'

'It doesn't, it never caught on.'

'Hang about,' said Periwig. 'What about the flat blocks?'

'Ah,' said Big Bob.

'And the Arts Centre?'

'Ah,' said Big Bob once again.

'I find these "ahs" of yours perturbing,' said Periwig Tombs. 'You have not done quite as much research as you should have on these matters.'

Big Bob said, 'Hm,' he was down a bit there, but far from out. 'All right,' said he, 'I agree. I grew up with the flat blocks and the Arts Centre. But nothing new has been built here in the last thirty years. Listen Periwig, I love this town and you love this town. We've lived here all our lives so far. Do you remember the times we had together at school? Joy, joy happy joyful times. Apart from the occasional sad time.' Big Bob sighed his final sigh of the day.

Whenever he thought of his schooldays and the joy joy happy joy times that he'd had, he thought of Ann Green. She used to be in his class at the junior school. She hadn't been the first love of his life, or anything. She had just been another little girl. But, at the age of ten she had died, in an accident in the playground of the memorial park. Big Bob, little Bob then, had seen it happen. She had been pushing a friend on one of those long metal swingboats, of the type that happily you don't see in playgrounds any more. Someone had called out to her and she had turned her head. The swingboat swung back and hit her in the throat. And suddenly, the little girl, so full of life a moment before, was dead.