LAST MONDAY
I'm no good as a gangster.
I swaggered into that Manchester bookshop - tough talk ready - looked at the bookseller - - - and stalled.
In fearful silence I approached the counter, unscrewed the flower press - and laid the fern bare.
Marjorie looked at it (in silence)
bent down behind the counter (in silence)
took a large, flat, wooden box from a shelf below - (the kind expensive cigars come in (only wider)) (in silence)
laid it on the counter (in silence)
and opened it (in silence).
There, arranged neatly in rows, were yellow Plutonian Fern Fronds (pressed) with a pressed geranium flower beside every one.
She looked at me (fearfully).
I looked at her (puzzledly).
She locked the shop (still silently) and we left by the 'staff entrance' (quickly).
In a back street that was even 'backer' than the one I'd come in by, there is a coffee shop.
Good.
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