Brandon looked up from the draft copy of the new catalogue that he was proof reading, and swore as the noisy air conditioning unit on the wall expired with a loud rattle and a dying sigh.  This was the third time this summer that the antiquated piece of shit had conked out during the hottest part of the day.  Complaints to Head Office had resulted in little more than vague promises that it would be looked at soon, and suggestions to open the doors and windows for a through breeze.

The overhead fans had stopped working around the time the last pair of animals boarded the Ark, and from where was he supposed to conjure up a breeze on a day like today?  The temperature was 40C last time he looked, and the Fremantle Doctor had once again let them down.

Picking up the phone, he dialled Head Office.  “Afternoon Jenny.  Brandon Lister here.  Yes, same old problem, and it’s going to be hotter than the hinges of Hell in here before long.  Can you get onto His Nibs and get him to send out someone who knows what he’s doing to come and fix it?  Better yet, tell him it’s died for good, and can he send out a new aircon ASAP?  Well, I had to try.  Do your best, Jenny love.  Bye.”

He barely had time to put down the phone before he swore again as the bing bong of the alarm strip across the driveway alerted him to the arrival of a new customer.  Now he’d have to leave the relative cool of his office and make with the hard sell routine.  So far today, he’d only sold one unit, and as he surveyed the dilapidated state of the approaching station wagon, he didn’t fancy his chances of unloading his top model onto this customer.

Rummaging through his options, he pegged a long suffering smile on his already perspiring face, and approached the driver as he walked toward the display.  The unkempt jeans and baggy T shirt confirmed the doubts that the vehicle had aroused in him.  The driver looked so affluent he’d probably have to put a Big Mac on lay-by, so what the hell was he doing here?

“Good afternoon, sir.  It sure is a hot one today, isn’t it?”

“That’s why we’re here,” said the man in a blunt Yorkshire accent, making no attempt at the amenities.

“Of course it is, sir.  Would you like me to show you over our display models, or would you prefer to browse a while first, Mr er?”

“Charlie’s the name.  Charlie Farley.  Me dad had a sense of humour.  We came from Bradford, you know.”

“Quite, Mr Farley.  Now this particular model is one of our most popular items, and…”

Brandon was cut off in mid sentence by the vision of what seemed like a whole kindergarten class erupting, yelling loudly, from the Farley wagon.  On closer inspection, the invasion proved to consist of 6 children of assorted ages and sexes, plus a rather large scruffy grey dog.

However, it wasn’t the children that drew Brandon’s attention so much as their accessories.  Each of them was carrying a beach towel, and between them, they boasted an impressive array of floaties, armbands, beach balls and rubber duckies.

His mouth opened in an automatic, ”What the f…!”, but Charlie beat him to it.

“I can see you look surprised, Mr er?”

“Lister,” replied Brandon, weakly.

“Mr Lister.  Well, it’s obvious we’re not going to buy anything without trying it out first, isn’t it?  We didn’t come down in’t last shower.  You wouldn’t go into a furniture shop and buy a chair without sitting in it first, would you?”

Brandon could only stand there, with mouth open, unsure whether to nod, shake his head or run for the hills.

“OK, kids, everybody in!” roared Charlie, and amid cheers, the whole lot of them threw down their towels and leapt into the Lagoon model pool with a mighty splash, followed by the dog with a joyous woof.  “I think I’ll try out the Tropical model over here.”

Pulling off his disreputable jeans, he smiled at Brandon.