THE Covered Market shop that sells art and crafts from Kashmir, Dragon’s Den, was in darkness. To my knowledge it had been for nigh on a month. Neighbouring traders confirmed this.

There was a small handwritten note on the glass door. It read: ‘Back in 5 mins!’ Just then an old chum, retired postman Ken, arrived on the scene.

He was on his way to our favourite Covered Market café and was quick to point out it was my turn to ‘get them in’.

I pointed to the notice and told him it had been there for some considerable time.

“Five minutes, eh?” he said, stroking his unshaven chin.

“Has anyone checked to see if the one who wrote it is locked in the lavatory?”

With that he strode off in the direction of the café whistling the tune to ‘Oh Dear, What Can the Matter Be?’ The world is full of would-be comedians.

ANOTHER sign that had caught the attention of the public – well, an eight-year- old lad out with his grandad – was to be seen at the High Street end of Turl Street. It was a warning: ‘Road closed ahead. Buisness [corr] open as usual’.

“Some people can’t spell,” the boy declared and quickly pointed out the error, adding rather pompously that someone at the Town Hall should correct it. The grandfather was not impressed.

“George. Try not to be such a smart a***!” he said before steering him into The Mitre where grandma and an early lunch were waiting.

I WAS caught red-handed. The evidence was beyond dispute. This opponent of the mobile phone – or rather the fixation with, and the excessive use there of – was caught peering at the screen of a new machine bought a couple of hours before.

I was on the park-and-ride bus heading for Pear Tree and was taking the opportunity to try to work out how it ticked.

Suddenly a stranger of about the same vintage said my credibility was now in tatters.

He had read my views.

How dare I have a mobile phone after all I had written?

It was pointless saying the new phone was to replace the one my family had insisted I kept in the car glove compartment in case of emergency and that the old thing had died of loneliness – which was the truth; nor that it was so ancient it bore Roman numerals and any top-up was made in pounds shillings and pence – a slight exaggeration I confess. I was guilty as charged.

Still, there was a silver lining. He had read Cabbages & Kings and no old reporter could ask for more.

Needlesss to say I thanked him warmly.