I got myself a new pair of trousers. They were lovely, two legs and everything. I’m not an amputee, not yet at least.
Anyway, the right-hand pocket has a sort of split in it, giving the pocket two chambers. I imagine they’re called chambers, but I’ve no idea what they would be called. I bet a decent tailor would be able to enlighten me.
Oh yes, the pocket! So, I slipped my house keys in when I left the house one day and dashed off to work.
I did my work and that, and then I prepared to leave. I put my hand in my pocket to check my keys. And they weren’t there!
There’s not much suspense in this, is there? I think we all know where my keys were.
Everybody had a good look around to help me. Even Fat Brian put his packet of cheese and onion crisps down and shifted his bottom slightly while looking at the floor.
Of course, 12 seconds after I, like Stockhausen, alerted my colleagues to my keyless state I found them in the other chamber. But I was too embarrassed to tell them they were in my pocket all along. I let them carry on looking for about five minutes.
In the end, I ducked under a desk, whipped them out my pocket, then crawled out, holding them above my head. “Got ’em, everyone. Thanks for looking,” I said.
And that’s why I understand the pickle poor Shannon Matthews’ mum, Karen, has apparently got herself into. It’s very easily done.