Lemme tell ya them guys ain’t dumb..

It is 8 a.m. and I am about my morning tasks when the phone, a landline with the customary 0161 prefix,  rings:

“Mr Stockton?”

“Yes”

“Chimpsons remoovahls”

“Sorry?”

“Shrimpsums remoovaals”

“I am sorry , can you say that again? I am not sure what you are saying.”

200 miles to the south, in darkest Dalston, North London, a large man in his 40’s, probably with a shaved head and an earring, covers his mobile with a substantial hand and expresses his exasperation to his mate:

“Fakhin norvern monkeys, tryna mug me off I reckon…”

Removes hand , “Shim-shuns we-moov-als!”

The situation crystallises, I ask:

“Are you in a van in Dalston, London?”

He replies in a sort of Dick Van Dyke, Mary Poppins style :”Yuueeah”

“Do you have a sofa and a bed for delivery to a flat in Collins Tower?”

Reverting now to a character from Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels:  ” Yuuwwah”

“Then it’s my son you want, he lives in London. Give me your mobile number and I will ring you back with his mobile number.”

“Oh thats awrite mate, I ‘av two other numbers ‘ere. I jus fowt I’d ring this one fust. Fanks”

Our paths diverge, never hopefully to cross again in this world or the next. Back in Dalston:

“I still reckun he was trying to ‘av me for a mug. 0161, ‘ow was I sposed to know?  I fowt it was somewhere norf but maybe Walfamstow or ‘Itchin, Fukhin Toby!”