“Murder,” she said, “Pure bleeding elbow-swinging, foot-crushing murder. A fight to the death almost, to get those slippers.” She took sip from her favourite cup and grimaced. “What’s this now?” she said peering into the murky liquid. “Someone trying to poison me?
“Yeah, it were murder. Elsie from number eight said they’d been queuing outside all night. Somebody had put it about that there were some furs on the sale. ‘Course there weren’t; it were a myth. Lots of other stuff up for grabs, but no furs. Nah, no furs. People are too bleeding quick to believe any old story nowadays. Too bleeding hasty by far if you ask me. No common sense. Not too clever, sometimes. Apparently it got nasty. Had to call the police to keep order. It were all over by the time I arrived; nine-ish or thereabouts, I reckon. Luckily.
“I don’t care for that sort of behavior. It don’t look good. I mean to say, what if the Bishop saw all that? Hate to think what they’ll be saying from the pulpit on Sunday. Or if somebody put it on that twitter thingy; the Americans would see it and think we’re all rubbish. Which we ain’t. Mostly.
“Well, discount furs? It just ain’t gonna happen. That’s unless the badger cull goes well. Can they make fur coats from badgers? Could be an opportunity there. Lidl and Aldi could sell them. You never know. They sell the weirdest things. Lobster, can you believe it? And as for their help-yourself cashew nuts, well, that’s at a price no-one can match.
“That’s a good cuppa. Needed that. These sales! Bleeding murder!
“Like the slippers? Cerise, it says. Red, I reckon. A real bargain. Worth the bother.”