Gordon Goodbody, a Welshman born and bred, decided to go on the forthcoming charabanc outing. He had recently bought a cottage in a small Kent village, having retired from the coal mining industry.

He was an introverted man of very few words, preferring. his own company. His decision to go on the outing had caused much surprise in the community, where he was already regarded as a bit of a loner.

On the day of the outing, Gordon wrapped cheese sandwiches in foil and filled his flask with strong tea. He donned his one and only suit, a faithful standby for special occasions, though I doubt there had been many of those, going by the powerful odour of mothballs. He rinsed his new false teeth under the tap before fixing them into his mouth, then pulled on his pre-war trilby. He locked his front door and departed to catch the waiting charabanc.

Boarding the bus, Gordon hoped he wouldnt be sitting next to a loquacious person who would give him a running commentary on their family tree. It would be worse than being shown photographs of strangers and trying to show an interest.

He found a spare seat next to a chap with ginger hair. Gordon groaned inwardly, but more of why later.

The man introduced himself as Bert, the local butcher. Gordon grunted an inaudible reply, not wishing to prolong the conversation.

Bert, however, had other ideas. He subjected Gordon to a non-stop saga of how he had practically won the Second World War single-handedly, shooting a battalion of German soldiers.

Not one to suffer fools gladly, especially if they were insulting his intelligence, Gordon listened in contemptuous silence. Grimly he thought, I bet the only battle youve been in is on a desert island using your wild imagination for troops and bullets. Youre probably going to tell me next you won the Victoria Cross before getting knighted.

Feigning sleep, Gordons thoughts returned to the past when as a young miner hed. been involved in a pit disaster. One moment he had been enjoying a joke with his three workmates, one his lifelong friend Bryn, when there had been an ominous rumble.

Run for it boys! Gordon had managed to yell before they were all engulfed under a wall of coal.

Escaping the worst of the cave-in, he broke through. Cursing and praying at the same time, he clawed with his bare hands at the black tomb trapping his friends. Blood trickled down his face from a head wound as he prayed for a miracle and the hope of rescue.

Despite the threat of another cave-in and a miners nightmare, gas, Gordon refused to give up. Miners were a close-knit family. In a situation like this, they didnt give up without a fight. They were more reliable than Big Ben.

When all seemed lost, a hand appeared. Gordon grasped it firmly and heaved the injured miner out, knowing with a heavy heart it was too late for the others.

He carried the lucky miner through the long tunnel to safety. He would never forget Amy, Bryns young wife. He couldnt look her in the eye, feeling guilty for leaving him behind.

When awarded the George medal for extreme bravery, Gordon was heard to comment, Medals are fine, but they dont feed families, do they?

The medal lay undisturbed in a tin box alongside a snapshot of the dead men, taken the Christmas before they perished in the mine. It was as if he was telling them, Sorry boys, I did my best.

Bert, meanwhile, was warbling loudly off~tune, Oh I do like to be beside the seaside.

Gordon, coming from the land of song where singers were two a penny, was not prepared to listen to a tone-deaf butcher for another hour of the journey, his war exploits had been bad enough.

Rounding on the ever-cheerful Bert, Gordon said sharply, You should have been a writer, preferably fiction, but definitely not a singer.

Bert spluttered to an embarrassed halt, but put discretion before valour because Gordon lived up to his name and was built like a tank.

Arriving at their destination, Gordon was glad to see the sun blazing down. Maybe the day would be a success after all. A man of simple tastes, all he needed was a spot on the sands where he intended to make a day of it. What more did he need, he thought cheerfully.

Finding a dilapidated deckchair, he sat down thinking, beggars cant be choosers. He opened his packed lunch, determined to enjoy his rare day out despite the bad start by the obnoxious Bert.

Gordon was tucking into his lunch when a spotty boy appeared, holding his hand out expectantly.

What do you want? asked Gordon, his mouth full.

A pound please, sir, replied the boy, wiping his nose with a grubby hand.

Gordon nearly choked. Buzz off. You cheeky blighter! he said, ignoring the request.

Its for the chair, sir, said the boy, standing firm.

The CHAIR, exploded Gordon. You should be paying ME to sit on the decrepit thing. It was probably washed up from Noahs Ark.

Suddenly the heavens opened with a vengeance. Everyone on the beach scattered, including the persistent attendant.

Rain poured down Gordons face from his trilby. His suit took on a life of its own, shrinking by the second, as if to say, I give up, youve had your moneys worth. A dog bounded over and shook wet sand over Gordons already wet sandwiches, then cocked his leg up the chair and used it for a tree.

Gordon became paranoid. Its Bert hes a jinx I never trusted people with ginger hair always been unlucky for me, come to think of it, the bus driver was ginger Im going home by train, its an omenas for my dentist, he should have been a welder - these new false teeth are far too tight, theyre killing me.

From a distance a wag yelled, Hey, Grandad! You look like King Canute defying the tide to come in!

Gordon burst out laughing for the first time that miserable day. What a funny sight he must look, sitting on a deserted beach on a lopsided deckchair, drenched to the skin.

Charabanc outings, he shouted back. Never again.