I was looking for a copy of the Guardian in a local newsagent today. Could I find one? Well, it was lunchtime and in this particular part of South-West London, Britain's favourite lefty daily sells out quicker than all the other titles. Disappointed, I had one last rummage. Acting on impulse, I turned over a copy of the FT and there - sure enough - was one solitary edition of my number one paper. Elated, I offered my 70p to the lady behind the counter.
"Where did you find that?" she enquired.
"It was down there, underneath the Financial Times."
"You were lucky. Someone was asking for it earlier."
One of life's small victories, although tinged with sadness at the the thought of another, less dedicated, shopper deprived of his Polly Toynbee and George Monbiot fix.
I headed over to the local caf and sat myself down.
I glanced at the Guardian and saw that it was covering the Chelsea v Forest game from Saturday. A little odd, I thought, as we were now in the middle of Tuesday.
Yes, blog reader, you've guessed it. I'd bought Monday's paper. It did cross my mind to go back, but hunger got the better of me. I just pretended I was a time traveller and caught up on important news about Big Brother in the Media section.