Dogwash

I was walking along one of the main shopping streets of central London; I forget which one. In the other direction there approached a Chinaman. He was dressed in what appeared to be waiter's garb, with one of those little black weskits they seem to favour.

Johnny Chinaman, however, was not walking but running, running as fast as his little legs would carry him. He ran as if his life — or somebody's life — depended on it.

So why the great hurry?

I don't know, but I did notice what he was carrying. In one hand he held a large clear polythene sack containing a dozen or so of those giant industrial-size bog rolls you sometimes encounter in the toilets of institutional or commercial premises.

I find myself thinking of the running Chinaman whenever I pass a Chinese restaurant. And for some reason I cannot quite fathom, I am never tempted to go in.