On Boat Race Night or some other recent occasion when young blood rises up in yeasty ferment, I and my faithful cellphone foregathered with image you see on your screen. Or rather, with the real life version of the same. Having snapshotted and foregathered, and then foregathered and snapshotted, I came all of a sudden to a crisis in my affairs. Bertram the reveling snapshotter was replaced by Bertram the man of deeds. “Is that a policeman’s helmet I see before me?” I incisively asked, and was forced to admit that it was. “What is Bertram to do?” I snappily rejoined, and there I had me.
There could only be one answer. Pinch the bally thing. If an officer of the l. brazenly bestrews his conveyance hither and yon with naked police helmets, like some kind of bobby’s Godiva chapeau, he must expect the light-fingered young man of affairs to indulge in some salubrious kifing.
I mean to say, one’s ordinary old Conscience 1.0 simply isn’t up to the strain, dash it all.