More stickiness

The Duck's latest tale of woe has reminded me of an incident that took place back in the heady days of 2002.

I had moved out of the family home and was living in a pokey flat in Crayford, Kent. Just by the River Cray it was. Sort of. There was another block in front and a smouldering Cavalier to negotiate first. It was all I could afford. Nice neighbours though. My electricity was on a payment key and the only place to recharge it was the local newsagent, I hardly went in otherwise. This particular day Sharon was visiting and as it was decent weather we went out for a walk. Passing the papershop I said I'd better nip in to put a tenner on the key. Somebody else, wearing a crash helmet, followed us in. While Mr Patel was about his business with the key there was an almighty crash of falling print from behind us. S and I spun round to see Mr Crash Helmet man, lid obviously worn in a vainglorious attempt to disguise himself, clutching what he had hitherto assumed to be the coming (sic) evening's diversion but also standing, quietly whimpering, in the centre of a mound of Messrs Sullivan and Desmond's latest entertainment titles.

A tsunami of schadenfreude swept over us as we maximised the poor bloke's woe by not taking the easy route out of the shop and going around the other side of the central display. Instead we picked our way gingerly between Asian Babes, Big Ones and Shaven Havens. "Oops." I think I said, "You're on your own, mate"