I’m food shopping in a small place called Heckmondwike. No I’m not making this up, as I sometimes wish I was. I’m in a chain of supermarket (aren’t I always) buying some half-decent beef for the Sunday roast and the checkout guy starts talking to me.
‘Baking?’ he says, looking at the plain flour I’m buying.
‘Yorkshire puddings: Sunday Roast.’ I tell him.
‘Ah, but can you get them to rise?’ he asks with a smile.
‘Yes mate. And I’m not even from Yorkshire!’
‘Where are you from? Where were you born?’
‘Oh! Me too, which part?
‘I was born in Brent. Quite near to you! We must have done something in our previous lives to upset the gods, to end up in a place like this!’
And that’s verbatim. You couldn't make shit like this up (well, I couldn't).