An old man, probably 85, sat in the corner of the shop, a second-hand goods shop, set up for a charity. It was his day to be on duty.
The shop was jammed with old furniture, bric-a-brac, wardrobes.
The old man gets up from his chair behind the old desk. He slurs and wheezes - obviously had a stroke some time in the past. 'Can I help you?'
Yes, sir, you can help me.
I bought a wardrobe.
The old man had all the keys for all the wardrobes on a string. He fumbled with them, couldn't get the right key to fit the wardrobe. 'People pinch 'em,' he slurred and wheezed. 'All the time.' He's like, eighty-five.
'Let me help you,' I said. I unlocked the wardrobe. It had shelves on one side, a hanger on the other. Perfect.
Here is this frail octogenarian, humour in his watery blue eyes, watching his autumn years - maybe months - roll away in the cause of charity. While mean-spirited low-lifes steal keys out of charity shop wardrobe doors from under the noses of the elderly.
Another old guy came into the shop, the afternoon guy. They filled out the delivery form together.