On putting your foot in mouth, part 36,923
For reasons far too complicated to explain (but does NOT involve the accidental death of a prostitute), I find myself dragging a full laundry hamper down the corridors of an old people's home, in the general direction of the laundry rooms, the communal bins and - of course - the canal footpath.
The lift door opens and out steps a little old lady, tottering along with a walking frame-on-wheels. Out of politeness, a man's got to make small talk, or you will be reminded of the fact that you did NOTHING in World War II.
"You know, there's just some days you can't get rid of a dead whore."
Whoops, that certainly came out wrong. That's what you get when you're bunged up like Dennis Nilsen's drains.
"I beg your pardon? You want me to open the lift door?"
Note to the police: I never done nothing.