I won a couple of framed Victorian prints from an auction in Stamford in Lincolnshire. When they invoiced me, I asked them to add the postage. No postage. Rather than pay a packing company, I thought I'd take the train up to Stamford, which is an attractive, Georgian town.
After lunch and a stroll around and lunch, I set off for the auctioneer, sited on an industrial estate on the edge of the town. Got there, by now in driving rain. The prints were produced. Oops, I hadn't looked closely at the size, which was extra large. The auctioneer tried all the local taxi companies to find me a ride back to the station. None available, so I decided to walk, my prints in a giant laundry bag. Probably the longest half-hour of my life. Reached the station with every muscle aching, drenched in sweat.
Made it back to King's Cross, having negotiated the change at Peterborough. Staggered into a black cab, and paid the best part of £50 to get home to Wandsworth.
There are various morals here.
