Sadly, the £10 note in my wallet is a forgery. I know it’s a forgery because the sociopathic lesbian in Oddbins said so – and she’s never wrong, ever, particularly when it comes to deconstructing my preferred brand of oaky Chilean red. Furthermore, I understand that English currency typically features a portrait of the Queen, and not Leo Sayer.
Nevertheless, I’m confident my cab driver doesn’t possess a forensic eye for detail. Sure enough, he drops me at my front door and accepts the note without question.
‘What an idiot,’ I chuckle, stepping inside.
About three minutes later, the doorbell rings.