AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

For earlier Chapters and an explanation of this dreadful story, see blog: The Cardiff Grandma. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh.
In the last chapter, the renegade bus falls into Plenty Capable hands. Next an excellent chapter, Japanese in its simplicity (we cannot take credit for this odd stereotypification we found in a secondhand shop)
The Cardiff Grandma Chapter 62

Once Schumacher had satisfied himself that it was indeed an open and shut case, he shut it and opened it a few more times and then, balancing it on his head, he set off in search of anyone but the Vice-Chancellor, who wanted it. It was empty and scuffed and rancid, but if the Vice wanted it, it had probably better be kept from him unless it had a timebomb cunningly crafted into its workmanship, and Schumacher didn’t think it had. Striding up the road, one hand steadying the valise on his head, he didn’t hear the remarks made by the passing Chinese trundling their rugs and appliances about on wheels: ‘Crazywhite people! Have they never heard of a travois?’

He had gone several blocks, heading aimlessly in the direction of Largest Hill, when he passed a street vendor, a miserable-looking mustachioed bastard who looked all out of breath, as if he had in the space of moments opened the beach parasol, unfolded the canvas stool and laid out on it for display something he’d only just then pulled out of his linty pocket in a desperate search for something to serve as wares.

‘’ello, guv’!’ the vendor cackled. ‘You need to get an ‘andle on that! ‘ave a look at these beauties!’ Schumacher paused. The salesman was right, the handle had long ago broken off the decrepit luggage. And his product was a beauty alright: two shiny new briefcase handles, each with their teensy screws in teensy plastic bags taped to their hinges. But Schumacher saw a different opportunity.

‘I need to get a handle on it, do I? On the contrary, you need to get a grip!’ He removed it from his head and presented it triumphantly to the peddler.

‘What do you want for it?’ asked the unnaturally suspicious fellow.

‘I’ll swop you,’ splendoured Schumacher graciously, ‘for those.’ He pointed his tailored chin at the goods.

‘Done!’ And so it was.

Within seconds of Schumacher’s departure, Peppet had deserted his impromptu stand and the ridiculous accent. Had he been wearing a disguise he’d have shed it, but he settled instead for a full shave with a battery razor as he slunk down the foggy back alleys of Caerdydd with the case on his head, straight for the office of the Vice-Chancellor.