Thread: It's never too late . . .

The scene is one of those rather depressing streets of terraced houses in England. It’s raining.

A bloke walks up to the front door of a house halfway along the street. He knocks on the door. The door opens to reveal a sad looking woman, holding a handkerchief to her face. She has obviously been crying. The bloke says

“Hello, missus. Is Alf in?”

The woman shakes her head, wipes her eyes and starts to cry softly. In between sobs she manages to say:

“Alf . . Alf he’s . . (sob). He’s dead (sob, snuffle)”

“Oh no!” says the bloke. “When did this happen?”

“Last night. He . . he . . passed away peacefully (sob) . . . in his sleep.”

“Well, I’m really very sorry to hear that,” says the bloke.

There’s a pause.

“Er, before he went,” says the bloke. “ Did he . . . did he say anything about a tin of paint?”