Little old lady who?
Stitched's comment just down below has reminded me of one of my biggest moments of shame.
A dear little old lady was once doing her shopping in a little old lady way, wobbling from shop to shop with her little old lady shopping bag over one arm. Sadly (for me as well as her) her ankle gave way as she stepped up a kerb and down she went, in a little old lady heap.
As she lay there wailing with shock and pain she let go of her (little old lady) bag, and the contents spilled forth.
Oranges.
Oranges which, suddenly released from captivity, seized their chance and made a break for freedom.
Away they rolled, slowly at first, but picking up speed as they went, and, as it was a cobbled street, they were catching some serious air.
Away they sped, faster and faster, higher and higher, like tiny spherical salmon, while the little old lady continued bleating mournfully, lying on the pavement while people fussed and plucked at her arms.
And what did I, your hero, do?
Did I go over and offer my assistance?
Did I call for an ambulance?
Did I fuck.
I sat on the kerb and laughed and laughed and laughed, til tears pricked the corners of my eyes and breathing became a chore, all too aware of the evil looks being fired in my direction, and all I could do was wheeze "but... the oranges! THE ORANGES!"

I offer no apologies. It was the biggest laugh I'd had for ages, and I hope that, one day, when I'm frail and old, someone, somewhere, laughs just as hard at me if I do anything similar. I'll shake their hand. Life's too short to stifle laughter.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Sat 19 Sep 2009, 22:04, Reply)