Roy Orbison In Clingfilm

It begins innocently enough in the pet-shop. I am seeking worms for Jetta.

'Hello there,' says a vaulting tenor voice behind me. 'We meet again.'

I turn and take in the black clothes and trademark dark glasses. I bow and smile. 'Mr. Roy Orbison, I presume. What brings you to our little emporium?'

'I was passing through town on my way to a rock star conference in Essen when I decided to get some de-worming powder for my dog.'

'Ah! How ironic! Your dog has worms and my Jetta eats worms.' I decide to risk a little joke. 'Perhaps we should bring the two of them together!'

But Roy does not laugh. The eyes behind the dark shades express no mirth. 'What? What are you saying? Are you saying your terrapin should eat worms out of my dog's ass?' he snarls.

It is all going wrong. My palms sweat. I wish to die. I try to wake up.

I blush and mumble apologies. Fortunately just then a distraction arrives.

Two criminals burst in waving shotguns.

'This is a robbery!' they yell. 'You two are hostages.'

'Make them tie each other up,' says the lead robber.

'Ach! I have forgotten the rope,' says his cohort.

'I happen to have a roll of cling-film with me,' I offer diffidently. 'Perhaps that would serve?'

'It will have to. Wrap that man in black in cling-film at once or it will go badly with you.'