This is a cautionary tale of what fate may await those with too much money in their pockets.

It is not often that Mister Tramp is in possession of a crisp £20 note but on such occasions the rich thrill obtained from one invariably results in a staggering and bewildering loss of control. No, not of my bladder and sphincter, but of that part of the brain utilised in the purchase of unnecessary goods.

It was in this frame of mind that I wandered past what appeared to be a melancholy bag salesman one grim Saturday morning. In hindsight I should have been alerted by the suspiciously obvious delight and furtive trouser scratching he demonstrated on my arrival to peruse his wares.

Unwittingly I picked up a few cheap items, content to browse and chuckle at their shoddy construction, safe in the knowledge that I was effectively rich and could purchase them and still have enough left for a bucket of Diamond White. Perhaps I do need a bag, I thought, although there is little here that takes my fancy.

At this point the merchant unfurled a petrifying array of sales techniques that left me gasping fishlike on the pavement. 'You like that one sir? That is a cheap bag, I have a much better bargain!' Oh, you oily-skinned manipulator, how easily you ensnared me!

He pointed, gestured, nay all but knelt down and gazed upwards in religious ecstasy at a satchel hanging innocently on the top shelf. 'That is the bag you want, sir!'

I examined it. I asked how much it was, still naively thinking I was in control of the situation. He told me it was £25. A gasp of relief, I could not buy. But then he grandly produced his turgescent secret weapon. 'For you, £20!'

Lord, how easily I handed over all my cash. How meekly I slunk off, each step bringing growing realisation that this was no marvellous carrying case, no holy grail of baggage.

It was only later in the comfort of my abode that the full putrid, poncified purpleness of my purchase eviscerated my eyeballs. Thus:

Egads, you taunt me even now!