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Roy’s relieved when the café gets a clean bill of health and it reopens to serve up the people of the parish with their bacon barm-cake fix. Vera asks Roy if she’ll get paid for the time that the café was closed. Trying (very, very hard) not to belt her round the head with his freshly scrubbed frying pan, Roy replies in measured tones that as she was the one responsible for closing him down in the first place, then, no, Vera, no, she will not be getting paid.
There’s something underhand at Underworld. Fiz and Leanne’s purses go missing, then Sally’s engagement ring. In the Rovers, Blanche loses her purses too and the finger of suspicion falls heavily on Kelly’s head (it’d be the weight, I’d say, of a full lemon squeezy jif, not so heavy as to knock you out, but heavy enough so you know it’s there). All the stolen loot turns up in Kelly’s locker but it’s barmy Becky who’s stolen them and put them there to fit her old mate up. Becky’s the sort of girl that we had in our school, you probably had one of them in yours, who put fear in the first years, the frighteners on the school truancy officer and scared the living hell out of the teachers. Anyway, Kelly’s carted off to the cop shop where she’s grilled and roasted and served with contempt. Back at the flat, Becky comes on to Lloyd and tries to snog him in the soft furnishings. He pushes her away and chucks her out on her ear. Joanne’s the only one who believes Kelly’s innocent as she’s shunned by Sean and the factory girls.
Rita responds to Norris barking out commands from his wheelchair. Ooh, it was just like Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, but in colour and on cobbles. When he can finally pull himself together instead of Rita doing it for him, Norris goes on a date with a woman called Helen. Well, she seems nice enough and Rita and Emily enjoy the gossip when they spy her coming to his flat. After Norris takes Helen on an afternoon out he takes her back to his flat where they find they’ve got much in common. They both wrote fan letters to Stephanie Beacham and are united in their grief at not receiving a reply. (Jonathan Harvey is fast becoming my favourite Corrie writer). But when Helen suggests a dirty weekend in London, Norris turns all no-no and says he won’t go-go. He retrieves Helen’s coat from the cupboard and tells her to go, walk out the door, don’t turn around now, you’re not welcome anymore. But as the cupboard door swings open, it reveals Rita with a feather boa on her head who was hiding in there. She’d gone into her old flat for a snoop around while Norris was out and now she’s been found out. Norris, to say the very least, is not best pleased. And Helen takes her leave wondering where Norris’ next floozy will turn up – underneath the kitchen sink? Wonderful stuff and very funny indeed.
Gail receives more cards but the spooky thing is one of them hasn’t been posted, it just turns up on the kitchen table while David’s off school sick and asleep upstairs. There’s a red smudge on the back of the card, possibly blood, which puzzles Gail until David reveals he’s got a paper cut on his finger. Chunk! Chunk! Chunk! The pieces of the puzzle fall into place on Gail’s head (this one would be the weight, I’d say, of an old fashioned tea-pot, possibly brown, not heavy enough to knock you out, but heavy enough so you know it’s there) and she starts suspecting her own son of being the secret card sender.
And Kev invites Craig to tea at the Websters without asking Sally for permission three weeks in advance with a written request, in triplicate, on a flower-scented notelet. She takes the huff and hits the roof (why?, Sally, why?) and tells Kev that if he’s going to invite every stray dog and orphan of Weatherfield for tea then he can blinkin’ well do the cooking himself. So he does.
And elsewhere this week, over at Streetcars Claire’s on the switch and takes the hump with the drivers for smoking in the cab office.
And that’s just about that for this week. It’s over to Janet next week.
Glenda
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