DC Sniffer flourishes a photo of a sheepish-looking me.
“Why were you entering this place of ill-repute, sir?” He calls me ‘sir’ as he tramples over flower-beds, shag-pile and shredded dignity, fig-leaf politeness excusing impertinent prying.
“Knickers,” I reply, “of the comedy-festive variety: cheaper in Primark than M&S.”
© Tim Scott
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