"There's no free parking here, you know," said Harold to the surly gentleman who had parked his car in one of the spaces behind the bookshop. "If this was a public parking space there'd be a sign."
"If it wasn't a parking space there'd be a 'no parking' sign," said the man, twisting his cap so that the peak shaded the back of his shaved neck. "Or yellow lines or summat."
"Look," Harold bent to peer into the driver's side window. "Just between you and me, the place is haunted. I'm the only one the ghosts allow park here."
"Ha!" The young man sniggered. "Good try, grand-dad. Pull the other one, it's got a hand lotion dispenser."
Harold wrinkled his nose when he worked out what this meant, and as the white soft-top Ford Escort backed out, vibrating the brickwork with its speaker volumes, he nodded to Devious in the passenger seat.
The music ceased, soom replaced by the sound of a ripping soft-top.