On channelling the spirit of poor, dead Bernard Cribbins*
I find myself in a traffic jam.
My progress home via a carefully-crafted series of back roads and short cuts has ground to a halt somewhere in a residential suburb of Reading, where a queue of cars in front of me disappears around the corner.
Minutes seem to turn into hours, and my car boxed into the mess of vehicles, I get out to see what the problem might be.
Rounding the corner, I am greeted by the sight of a large van, completely and utterly wedged between parked cars as it tried to perform a U-turn in the road.
The side of the pantechnicon reads: "BERKSHIRE PIANO REMOVALS - Fast! Efficient! Mostly in tune!!!"
Well - oh-ho! - they've hit a bum note today, and I venture forth to offer the driver the benefit of my advice as he wandered around scratching his head.
"May I be of assistance, my good man?" I ask.
"Why, yes," the scruff replied, "are you able to offer a solution to my current predicament vis-a-vis my goods vehicle loaded to its capacity with a grand piano, which appears to have become immobilised in this public thoroughfare?"
"Have you," I ventured, "Tried taking off the handles?
"And the things that hold the candles?"
So. He had a cup of tea. And told me to bugger off.
No wonder this country's going to ruin.
* I am assured that the wonderful Mr Cribbins is not dead, but you can't be too sure in the present zombie scare