Woburn Sands High Street was surprisingly busy for a wet, chilly Wednesday afternoon but I managed to find a parking space only about 50 yards from Pikesleys.
I walked through the driving rain and entered the shop.
“Two sacks of kindling wood please?”
“That’s thirteen pounds twenty.”
A year ago, they were £3.50 a bag. The shopkeeper blames Putin.
As I walked to the door, a bag in each hand, a tiny, frail old lady, bent over her walking stick, looked up and asked me if I would like her to open the door.
“That would be great,” I said, “and perhaps you could open the boot of my car as well,” I added, with what I hoped was a cheery, cheeky grin.
“Thanks very much,” I said, as I ventured past her, out into what seemed like a wall of rainwater.
I slowly struggled once more through a howling gale. A howling gale that seemed to have changed direction through 180 degrees so that I was again struggling to make any progress on the wet, slippery pavement.
I reached the car, put down one sack and searched for the key in my jacket pocket.
“Is it locked?” asked a voice from my side.
I was aghast.
“I was joking about you opening the boot. Didn’t you realise?”
