Cliques of three or more are formed, each member of which goes in search of victims, and the first female found complaining of pain in the lower part of her back, is immediately run down, corralled, cornered, so to speak, and sans ceremonie she is at once tabled, sofaed or beded, or in the absence of these relics of refinement she is floored or she may have to submit standing (especially if the doctor is in a hury and meets her at the gate or corner drug store) with an unerring plunge, of a not overly clean index finger, the darksome cavern is penetrated and perhaps, not, a cervix is touched and reveals, of course, a lacerated cervix, just as had been predicted.

What a goal as well, unbelievable tekkers.

I like to hang out with my buds on Saturday night.

For thirty-six years the Lost Property office was managed by Maureen Beaumont, and when I went there to interview her, back in the late Nineties, she told me people didn't seem embarrassed about what they'd lost. She'd known men collect stashes of porn, or blow-up dolls.