Bank Holiday at Dagfields

Oh my God, Vaughn, I can't take this heat any more. It's been like a furnace all day at Dagfields. This is all because I never had a proper menopause. I keep saying to the doctor, 'For God's sake, keep me on the HRT, otherwise I'll just burn up, let alone what havoc it would play with my hips.' And as usual, there were only three of us on at Dagfields, because anyone with any sense refuses to work the Bank Holiday. But they were all pleased that I was there, because I managed to stop one of the customers from dying. She just came up to see if anyone would make her an offer for this portrait of the Queen Mother, and I could tell instantly that she wasn't well, because she was all out of breath and her skin was blue and clammy. So I said to her, 'Now, look. You're having a pulmonary oedema. You need to get to hospital. I'll give you £35 for the picture.' Which I thought was a good offer, but she still managed to get me down to 30 whilst the paramedics were stretchering her out. I said to the paramedics, 'Don't bother with the defibrilator. It's a pulmonary oedema, I'm telling you now. She just needs some diamorphine and a good slap on the back. I know about these things; my husband's a GP. I've got this lovely Suzie Cooper polka dot milk jug, by the way. I'd let it go for £15 if it's the kind of thing you paramedics are into...'
So now I've got this portrait of the Queen Mother. Don't let on, but I think it might be an early Lucian Freud. I'll ask Evie when she's back from playgroup...