It's never too late . . .
The scene is one of those rather depressing streets of terraced houses in England. It’s raining.
A bloke walks up to the front door of a house halfway along the street. He knocks on the door. The door opens to reveal a sad looking woman, holding a handkerchief to her face. She has obviously been crying. The bloke says:-
“Hello, missus. Is Alf in?”
The woman shakes her head, wipes her eyes and starts to cry softly. In between sobs she manages to say:
“Alf . . Alf he’s . . (sob). He’s dead (sob, snuffle)”
“Oh no!” says the bloke. “When did this happen?”
“Last night. He . . he . . passed away peacefully (sob) . . . in his sleep.”
“Well, I’m really very sorry to hear that,” says the bloke.
There’s a pause.
“Er, before he went,” says the bloke. “ Did he . . . did he say anything about a tin of paint?”
