Telling jokes is one of those things that I do very badly. It's not the only thing I do badly by any means but as badly goes my joke telling ability is at the top end of the scale. So why am I about to tell a joke? Because it is pertinent to the post I wrote entitled "On Rain, Poetry and The Law". Actually it's supposed to be true so it's probably more of a story than a joke and I'm marginally, and only marginally, better at telling stories. So here goes.
One day in the House of Lords one of the Honorable Members, a Tory, referred to 'The man on the back of the Clapham omnibus'. One of his opponents in the debate, a Socialist, remarked that the Tory wouldn't know what it was like on the back of any omnibus never mind the Clapham one as his only mode of transport in the City was a taxi. Stung by this remark the Tory decided to remedy this defect in his life experience (or more probably eliminate this particular weakness in his debating armour). So after the sitting he asked one of the attendants where he could get a bus. Having been pointed in the direction of a bus stop (ok, elementary to you and to me) he got on the bus. When the conductor (it's a very old story) asked him where he was going he asked for a ticket to 6 Warminster Close. Quod erat demonstrandum: the Socialist won his point.