Friday, 6.30 pm.

The Phoenix.

"Pint of Stella and a packet of peanuts, please," I say.
"That your tea, is it?"
"I hope not! Cheers."

Some considerably pintage later, my phone rings: Kate. "I've left my jumper in the Phoenix. Can you grab it and take it home when you leave?"
Me, utterly slaughtered: "Yes. What does it look like?"
"It's a black V-neck."
"Okay."

An hour later: I call back on the way home.
"Got your jumper. Black round neck, yeah?"
"Argh. No. V-neck."
"Hang on -" <checks label> "- oh yeah. This is a mens' jumper."
"D'oh."

At least that's what I remember happening. Perhaps this tale is actually one of my workmates trying to wrestle a jumper away from me as I stumble, minging, out of the Phoenix with my ill-gotten booty.

Nice jumper, mind you.