It's Tuesday afternoon, and I'm outside the Flying Horse as dusk falls wondering where all these old men in beige overcoats have come from. I'm supposed to smile at one of them, but after 15 minutes my anxiety is sharpening into panic: I've smiled at eight, and although none has offered me sweets and a ride in their car, my luck can't hold much longer. My only defence is the suitcase I'm leaning on, which I need to take with me to Manchester in two hours' time. I imagine I look like Paddington Bear. The reason for my mad smiling lies in an earlier phone call from Michael.rn"Everybody's panicking. Stay there. I'm an old man in a beige raincoat. I'm literally two minutes away." For a surveyor, his delay estimate could have been more accurate. Eventually I'm rescued by Alex who leads me into the pub, where the Stace team have been drinking for some time.
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