On personal embarrassment
So, you're working late at office, long after everybody else has gone home. There are reports to compile, invoices to print and the company pay-run to process.
You have already dined well on the fine, fine set meal for one produced by Lee Fung's Chinese Takeaway over the road, but now you have an itch.
That shop is calling you.
That corner shop a brisk walk away that opens late and comes with an impressive top shelf with magazine for every conceivable - legal - peccadillo.
Suffering from some sort of jazz-mag-buying-compulsive-mental-disorder, you find yourself trolling down there on autopilot, shelling out genuine cash money on a copy of Tits in Bondage and bringing it back to the air conditioned comfort of the computer room for a good, hard peruse.
A peruse that is interrupted - at a vital Kleenex moment - by the arrival of the security guard.
Caught in the glare of his Maglite, the only words you can manage are "Just switching off for the night - be right with you", fully aware that your trousers are still undone and hanging around your knees.
Join the dots for maximum embarrassment.
This didn't happen to me. It was a friend. Yes. A friend.
What, then, was the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to a close friend whose name you have now forgotten?