Spicy peruses my CV, nodding from time to time, then fusses with the kettle that’s boiling.
‘The High Master passed me your application for the English post in Uppers.’
A priest? On drugs?
‘I’m afraid that’s been filled but we’re looking for someone down here.’
Down?
‘And out!’ suddenly from the radio.
Spicy reaches for a plate of custard creams. ‘They’re my guilty pleasure,’ he says offering them. ‘Whenever we get a wicket. Sounds like we’ve got the Aussies on the run.’