Arther was getting anxious. There was only an hour to go before the show started, and he had so much to do. If this ruddy que didn't move along the entire day could be ruined. Ruined!
"TA-DAAH!"
The toturously familiar sound from the big blue plastic machine on the counter meant Arthur would have to wait whilst the fellow in the beige mak was handed his winnings from Shankar's till.
"TA-DAAH!"
Oh, no. He's one of those lottery people who buys lotts of tickets. How long is this going to take? It's so ruddy inconsiderate!
"TA-DAAH!"
I'm going to say something. I have to. I've got to get back in time!
"Cheers Shank." The beige mak turned away from the counter. "Allo Arf." He he winked at Arthur as he shuffled past.
Taken by surprise at the mak's recognition of him, Arthur seamlesly dropped his look of indignation and put on his chummy, affable face."Hello there", Arthur smiled,"Lucky day?"
"Ferty squids mate. I'm off daan the Sparra!", the beige mak chuffed.
"Well, don't drink it all at once, eh", but the beige mak had already exited the small corner shop, and Arthur and the shop keeper were alone.
"Who on Earth was that chap, Shankar?"
"Oh, he's always in here Arthur. Spends maybe a hundred pounds a week on lottery tickets", replied the shopkeeper, smiling.
"Gracious! Anyway Shankar, I'm in a bit of a rush today. Did you manage to get any of that Battenberg in?"
"Sorry, they sent me more Cherry Bakewells." Arthur's heart sank. " I deffinately ordered Battenberg, but this delivery firm keeps getting things wrong. I will have some for you next week, Arthur, Even if I have to go and get it myself."
But Arthur had already moved on from the conversation and was assessing his options. He had to limit the damage.
"Never mind, Shankar. I'll take a box of those Bakewells."
He put the small blue and white plastic bag he was handed on top of his plaid shopping trolly and made his way past the gallery of sweets, magazines and greeting cards and left the shop.
It was sunny for a change. Markham road was busy with traffic and the double decker busses were full of school kids and commuters making their way home. He shuffled to the crossing adjacent to Shankar's, and waited for the green man.
'Well,' he thought,'it's not a total loss I suppose. I do like the odd Bakewell once in a while.
The high pitched bleeping signalled that it was safe to cross the road. He leant on his beloved trolly, and stepped out.
For most, the walk between the corner shop and Artur's flat would take 5 minutes. In his dotage however, Arther did well to make it in 20. At his age, and with his breathing difficulties he had to stop every few minutes to catch his breath and wipe his running nose. Getting around was certainly becomming more of a struggle as time wore on, but Arthur enjoyed the modicum of excercise and didn't want to give in to his ageing body.
After a few minutes rest on the other side of the road he leant on his trolly for the final leg of the short journey back to his flat in at the Grace Newman sheltered accomadation. It looked like any one of the other large houses on Markham road except for the absence of stairs at the front door and a small brass plaque dedicated to the memory of the late Ms Newman.
A thin dark skinned man openned the front door from the inside as Arthur reached for his key.
"Thanks Rashid", smiled Arthur. "Heaven knows how you alays know when I'm at the door".
"Magic Mr Arthur'.
Arthur had always liked Rashid. Ever since he had reluctantly moved into sheltered accommadation, his fears of having to put up with young, disrespectful carers (Arthurr hated that term) had been put at ease by this gentle Kashmiri gentleman. As the resident carer,Rashid had a small apartment in the building, but was almost always stationed at the small reception area, reading a paper, or watching the news.
"Some help with your shopping sir?'
'No thankyou' replied Arthur. "I'll be fine; trolly's almost empty today"
Arthur could see that the small telivision was on, 'I'll let you get back to it, I've got to put my meal on now."
"yes sir. Good evening Mr Arthur"
"Jus Arthur, Rashid' Arthur called over his shoulder, as he made his way down the worn, carpeted halway towards his ground level flat.
"Yes Mr Arthur", Rashid laughed.
Arthur's appartment was at the end of the coridoor, at the back of the house. He put his key into the shiney yale lock, and entered his home. He dropped his key on the small table bu the door, parked his trolley in it's little nook next to the vacuum cleaner behind the door, and hung up his anorack. Picking up the small carrier bag with the box of Bakewells in it, he made his way to the back of the appartment.
The flat occupied the the left rear quater of the ground floor, and looked over the small back patio and garden. On sunny days, residents would often gather on the patio and complain together about the state of the world today, but not today. The drizzle had come back.
Arthur was in his small kitchen, but didn't pay any attention to the specks of water, acumulating on the window. Tonight's meal would be some salmon salad sandwiches.
He openned a small tin of salmon and mixed it in with the salad he'd made the day before. He put his sandwiches onto one of the small plates on his cushionned lap tray, and put two of the Mr Kipling Cherry Bakewells on the other. He picked up his tray and walked into the adjoining living room.
The living room was where arthur spent most ofhis time. It was a humble sized room by any standards, but it was the largest in his flat. It had his new television in one corner, oposite his reclining chair, and his computer desk in another. On the opposite side of the room was a number of bookshelves, full of his favourite novels and autobiographys.  Arthur let out a groan as he sat at his chair, placed the tray on his lap and reached for the remote control.
With a moment's pause the television flickered on to the sound of the last few notes of the show's theme tune. Arthur relaxed; he hadn't missed the start as he had feared. He tucked into his sandwiches through the first half of the show, made a pot of tea during the commercial break, and polished off the Bakewells during the second half. They were'nt bad, but he still prefered Bettenberg.
Once the show was over, and the credits had rolled up the screen, Arthur tidied his plates away and sat at his computer desk. He left it on all the time these days, just in case his daughter were to give him one of her all too rare Skype calls. He'd missed one once when the computer had been switched off and she hadn't let him forget it. Rashid had come knocking at the door to see if Arthur had had a fall, or worse, at his daughter's insistance. The silly thing was she would only call him by Skype, but would call the house staff by phone at the drop of a hat. Arthur hated the bother it caused others; worrying about him, so he just left the computer on, and kept his door unlocked when he was home.
  He openned up his email. The usual junk. Insurance companies offering great funeral rates, ads for mobility scooters, a link to a website selling slippers.