Santa

     “What? Oh no. No I’d never retire from this, no I love it down here. No, bastard Council’s selling it off aren’t they. Didn’t you know? It was in the paper. Yes, it’s shutting for good next week.”
     Bond commiserated. “Not paying I suppose. That’s the reason most local authorities give these days.”
     The guide spat the word out. “Money! That’s the reason. Somebody with more money than sense is buying it. Building a ten storey department store over the top of it and turning the shelters into the world’s biggest Father Christmas’s grotto, he says. Somebody name of….now what was it?....silly sort of name....Gold….Gold something or other.
     Bond’s ears pricked. “Goldnojaws? Dr Goldnojaws?”
     The guide scowled. “Yes, that’s him, that’s the rotten sod.”
     Bond could certainly see why Goldnojaws would want to get his hands on such a place and it wasn’t for transforming it into a Santa’s grotto.
     By now they had reached the start point.” Well thank you,” Bond said, taking out his wallet, withdrawing a crisp ten pound note and handing it to the surprised guide. “Thank you very much indeed.”