11.30am. Sat in my local library.

I've recently cancelled my internet subscription at home and decided to make use of the facilities provided by the council. I figure I'm paying more than enough council tax and want to extract the maximum value for money. I'm therefore regularly popping out to the library to check emails, bank accounts and order stuff online. Who knows I might even sign up with the parish lesbian pottery group. At least we'd be able to discuss "plating" techniques, even if I don't share their love of ill fitting pullovers and hairy armpits. Anything to claw back some of my money from the bureaucrats in the town hall.

I also thought not having internet access at home would have benefits in other areas. For starters I'm saving the subscription costs. I don't have the temptation to go online, leaving other household chores left undone. I even thought not being able to surf the internet might help me address my burgeoning "crack" habit.

Of course there are problems with opening your emails in public. One of my work colleagues has a habit of sending out what can best be described as "off colour" emails, which although very funny, shouldn't really be given an airing, when you've got the local history group holding a meeting a couple of feet behind your right shoulder. I mistakenly opened one of his jpegs a couple of weeks ago and had to resort to ripping the power cable out of the back of the PC, before I was asked to leave the premises. It wasn't pleasant. Three words - glass coffee table.....

I once read that Alan Bennett would often ride on buses, furiously scribbling in his notebook, as he earwigged on the other passenger's conversations. The notes later used to produce his fantastic "Talking Heads" series of monologues and other writings.

The library's local history group seem to have an average age of about eighty. I strain to overhear them, while pretending to search ebay.

"Remember Agnes?"
"Who?"
"You know Agnes, used to work as a dinner lady at the infant's school on George Street."
"Doesn't ring a bell."
"You know big buxom woman, blonde hair, thought she was a cut above, used to look down her nose at us."

In my mind, I'm catapulted back to 1958, visualizing a Jayne Mansfield lookalike, dishing out sloppy semolina, the custard dripping off the ladle and sliding slowly down between her ample cleavage. As Kipling would have said, something stirs down in the undergrowth. Shortly to be brought back to reality with a bump..

"Yeah, she died a couple of weeks ago. The neighbour said she'd died from blood loss after a rectal prolapse. The police had to break the door down. They had to take the bay window out to get her out of the house. She'd let herself go a bit since Albert passed away."
"Oh, shame. Can you pass me another custard cream Sissy."

Guess I'm not going to be challenging Alan Bennett for an Olivier award any time soon. :|