Cobbler's Box

An eventful and uneventful day in turn. A guy turned up to uplift the maw's Ercol corner cabinet. £75. Quite a posh chap*, he declares that he's embarrassed that he doesn't know the price - his wife thought it was £50. I suggest to him that he may actually be a chancer. He takes that in his stride and finds another tenner which will leave him totally cleaned out, as he puts it. Aye.
I then deliver a desk over to the southside and as I turn into Swanston Avenue, a women of advanced years trips on the kerb and cracks her head on a wall. I run over and get her comfortable and phone the ambulance. Some concerned neighbours come out and bring a kitchen roll for her heid and take turns to tell me (as this woman is known locally) sotto voce that she's her own worst enemy. She's still walking in the Pentlands at her age. Michty!
And then the desk was too big, so that was no sale. Jeesus, I don't even need the money.
And then sadly, we're phoned to say that MrsP's aunt has passed away; the last of her father's brothers and sisters. Not unexpected, but, ach, that's a sad thing.

* I can do that accent too, pal.