Me and Dermot were browsing the Laines for nick-nacks, curios and what-not; a quiver full of turkey-feathered, willow strip Algonquin arrows; various useless brass chandlery; art deco nude lampshades and of course any stuffed mammal I could get my hands on. Dermot was of a more ornithological bent and fancied himself creating a fabulous diorama like the cock robin scene lately observed at Jamaica Inn's bizarre museum. We both did quite well and grasped many bargains. By the time it got to four o'clock, even with a short stop for gin and ginger, I was pooped, so I said,
"Call us a taxi, Derm!"
And we both stood there groaning under the weight.