Reaping and sowing
Back in 2002, before I moved to the millionaire's playground that is Crewe, I lived for a few months in a flat in Crayford, a settlement on the boundary between London and Kent. Sharon was visiting me that week and we'd nipped round the corner to the shop for some fags. We were aware of one other customer in the shop at the time, dressed in leathers and a full-faced helmet. It was a very hot day, he must have been baking. We made our purchase and turned to leave, at the precise moment that biker boy replaced the magazine he'd been perusing and dislodged the entire shelf-load, which slid inelegantly and noisily onto the floor around his feet. Funny at the best of times except that the reason for his attire became clear when we realised that the shelf he'd upset was the top one. We done several LOLs as the final few volumes of mank slid to the floor. The lad looked up, one of Dirty Dick's finest publications in his now no doubt even sweatier hand and rooted to the spot, his dreams of a rapid and anonymous escape back to his bedroom for an evening of quiet contemplation quite literally in tatters. I think he may even have been crying. Just to compound his agony, instead of walking the other side of the central display, we deliberately and ungallantly picked our way between the shiny pages, sniggering loudly in a shameless display of shadenfreude. We were very bad and it was funny.