"What happened to Mister Simms?" asked Robinson, with a gleeful grin at Mane, who lowered his drink slowly.
"Who's Mister Simms?" inquired the young raver.
"He runs the other sweet shop in the town," answered Robinson. "Only I think it's a chain, because I'm pretty sure his name isn't Simms really."
"He's a corporate liar," rasped Mane.
Everyone stopped chatting, although the rest of the faceless masses in the pub continued with their inane banter.
"Why?" I asked, which was clearly a mistake.
"Well, I applied for a job there," said Mane. "He had all my details. I gave him all the contact and work history stuff I could; I even gave him loads more stuff... anyway, I called up and he said he'd call back. He didn't. I called about three times..." He took a breath. "...and then he opened. I went in there, right, and all the people he'd hired were pretty young girls! I'm pretty sure that's discrimination!"
Everyone grinned evilly.
"You know," said my friend-who-is-a-teacher slowly, "you may not have given him exactly what he wanted..."
"He may have wanted to see your... you know... your humbugs."
There was a ripple of laughter.
"Humbugs? Surely they're more like Sally Lunn buns?"
"Fresh cream éclairs?"
"I'm not sure," pitched in Robinson. "Maybe he'd rather have seen your liquorice wand."
It's amazing how these things get started.