Today is the 8th anniversary of our marriage. Of course, this coming 5 September, me and The Missus have been stepping out together for a phenomenal 18 years. The scary thing is that neither of us can figure out where the time has gone. It still seems like yesterday that we were working together at Woolworths in Bakers Arms behind the record counter. When she got another job at Boots The Chemist up Wathamstow Market, I plucked up the courage to go ask her out. On the way back, I popped into Our Price in the arcade and bought Robbie Robertson’s first album. Those were the days.
So we keep any celebrations simple. We enjoy the sun and go to the pub. Sad, but even after all this time we can still go and natter for good three or four hours without getting bored of each other’s company. On the way to the pub I found a wallet in the curb. Normally, when I find lost money on the street, I trouser it. But because this was a wallet and there was a credit card inside, it actually belonged to someone and could be traced.
I had no luck in the phone book looking for Mr P, but I had the clever idea of phoning the credit card company and asking them to pass on my phone number onto him. Ten minutes later, Mr P phoned up and was very grateful to hear from me. He had my details and thanked me for being the only honest person in the world.
If you can’t do good things, what can you do?

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