I walk into the upholsterer’s shop.
A pair of pointy black leather men’s shoes stands, as if the owner disintegrated, like the witch the house fell on in the wizard of Oz.
‘Your shoes?’ I ask the man behind the counter.
‘Oh hell,’ he says, ‘I know whose they are. Hold on.’
Picks up phone.
‘Hi, you just dropped your trousers in my shop.’
I snort and burst out laughing.
He grins but carries on.
‘You left your shoes behind,’ he says to a footballer from a well-known local team.
Well, it brightened up my day.
OK. Break over, back to the grind …