Christine hovered, bent double in the wings, her heart pounding. All she could see in the darkness was the dusty felt carpet on the floor and her feet, wrapped in black bin bags.
‘Why on earth did I agree to do this?’ she asked herself as she took another deep breath to calm her nerves in what was becoming stifling heat. She now regretted the garlic bread at lunchtime, which would add to her post-Christmas waistline. The sweat running into her eyes was beginning to sting.
Below, in front of her, a similarly clumpy, bin-bagged foot shifted to nudge her leg.
‘You OK back there, Chris?’ Brian’s muffled voice whispered. ‘We’re on next.’
But Christine’s reply was drowned out by the shrill shriek of Dame Widow Twankey somewhere to Christine’s right… ‘He died on a sundae. We found him lying behind the counter, covered in chocolate. Doctor said he topped himself!’
In the half-darkness, Christine heard roars of laughter only a few inches away – mums, dads and kids – a pick ’n’ mix of sheer
