I’ve never been the sort of bloke that needs to end up as the hero in one of my own stories.  Rather, I quite enjoy being “done up like a kipper” as they say.

Take these two examples.

Some years ago I had the pretentious urge to buy a fob watch for myself.  I saw one on Bawtry Market and after examining it thoughtfully and with an entirely unwarranted professional mien, told the stallholder I’d have it.  He boxed it up, took my twelve quid and handed it to me.  Belatedly I thought to ask him if it came with a guarantee.  “Oh yes, sir” he said.  “It’s a Smiths; it’ll go for years”.

On another occasion I’d popped out of the office in Grimethorpe to the local butcher for a sandwich.  I looked quite the dandy in platform shoes, printed shirt and kipper tie – in a mining village like Grimethorpe a victim waiting to happen.  After he’d made it and given it to me, I noticed behind him on one of the shelves were some small, plucked birds not much bigger than a tennis ball.  Thinking they might be quail or partridge or somesuch (neither being the typical luncheon fayre of Grimey) I asked him what they were. With a seamlessness I have come to admire, he took one from the shelf, wrapped it and handed it to me, saying, “They’re a pound, sir”.

Sweetly, sweetly done.