I spent the night before the dinner at my Granny T’s house. She was looking remarkably well – and indeed fashionable – for someone who had been dead for twenty years.
On the evening of the big event itself I elected to walk to the venue. I hoped that none of the other guests who passed by in their cars would stop to offer me a lift.
On the pavement I saw a brown leather wallet. I bent down to pick it up just as a muscular tramp grabbed it. He flung it along the street. I raced him for it. In spite of all my running training, my sprint speed was not as good as that of my competitor. He pulled a few notes from the wallet and left it on the ground. I picked it up and pocketed the remaining £60 or so. This was for security reasons: if the tramp came after the wallet again, he could have it, but the cash would be safe.
I then came across three young men on a business trip. One suddenly noticed that his wallet was missing. I suggested that the one that I had found might be his. We decided to check this officially at the bank.
Unfortunately the bank was just closing. We would have to wait until the next day to sort this out.
Dreamaticus 