THERE are times when a bloke knows he’s out of his depth. I was down there with the weird creatures which inhabit the interior of the Lusitania.

Bloody Great War history again.

Grasping for an exit clause, I retreated to that inane response which plagues modern language.

"At the end of the day, Mrs. Wills ... in a manner of speaking, I’m basically an amateur at this game. The talk is ok, the walk is something different altogether.

"With all due respect, you would be much better served with a real professional. I mean, this could cost a lot of money and time and …"

The sight of the open chequebook stopped me in my fumbling tracks.

"Oh I do realise that it would be a long term endeavour, Mr. Blackadder," she purred."And I’m quite happy to meet your costs. Say £5,000 to get you started? Plus expenses of course."

It wasn’t so much the money that made me say yes. Fellow anoraks out there will know the truth. It was the valuation she had placed on my expertise .. such as it was.

Vanity. Moi? Don’t kid yourselves. Finance and flattery, what a motivational formula.

But even I had enough wit to ask the important question.

“Mrs. Wills, just why are you doing this?”

She even lied elegantly: “Let’s say I’m on a voyage of self-discovery Mr. Blackadder.

“You just pop this cheque into your account.”

Gesturing towards the Pandora’s box which had been cunningly disguised as antique biscuit tin, she added: “Take that little box you almost drooled over with you, and the tape. There’s more to see and hear … and I’ll expect a call from you in a couple of weeks.”

Contrary to popular opinion, the real stories never appear in the local rag. You want the truth? Ask your friendly local shopkeeper.

You see, people have a tendency to treat their newsagent like a priest in the confessional. Next door neighbour’s having an affair? Jimmy’s young lad’s doing heroin? You can bet Marina’s heard it first.

Everyone from the guy who drives the 6am builders’ van to the local bank manager talks to Marina. Chris Baker told me once that Marina was worth £100 a month fiddled on his ‘editorial expenses’.

That’s why I always gave her a happy smile and told a joke when I called in for my ‘Mudcaster Observer’. I kept the important things to myself.

“How’s it going today girl?” I asked. As an opening gambit they don’t come much worse but hey, I was being ‘natural.’

Marina automatically reached for the Bensons, tossed them down on the counter and adopted her best Mae West pose. One hand on her hip and the other draped casually over the cash register.

“If you’re gonnae tell us a joke, make sure it’s better than your last yin,” sighed Marina in her best Glaswegian.

“OK .. did you hear about the dyslexic pimp? He was running a warehouse!”

Marina gave me that derisive look she reserved for all my efforts at humour.

“Will that be all or are ye here tae annoy the tits aff me for a wee while longer?” she said charmingly.

On the basis that there is no time like the present, I went straight for the throat.

“You know that Wills woman up on Campbell Avenue? I was doing a wee job for her today …”

Human nature is a wonderful thing and Marina responded true to form.

“Couldnae say a bad thing about the woman,” said Marina. “Never did me any harm. Always pays her bills on time, not like some o’ them snobby arseholes who live around her. Gabshites order up papers and magazines by the vanload and when you ask them to square up the bill, they luk at ye like you’re *****, ken?”

I warmed to my task: “Right enough, she was straight with me on a wee deal too. Seemed a lovely lady to me.”

“Listen Des,” said Marina, leaning forward. Her body language was pure Hollywood Confidential. “Ah’m no sayin’ anything about her but there’s two sides tae everybody.”

I opened the fags and passed one to Marina.

“Tell me more,” I said.