The old wardrobe shop.

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.