Mozying along the front yesterday evening in a bid to catch the last rays of the sun, I was overcome by an irresistible urge to have a flutter. And not wishing to go home and change into my DJ, I spurned our Casino Royale in favour of one of those slot palaces so beloved of the local pit bull tugging, track suit brigade.
Suitably armed with a couple of bags of two pence pieces (tuppenny bits in old money), I headed for one of those attractions where you have to judge the right moment to deposit your hard-earned dosh so that it pushes great piles of copper out of the machine. I was doing rather well, until I heard a distinctly non-metallic thud emanate from the pay-out drawer.
It seems I was now the, er, proud owner of a Millennium Dome souvenir eraser, complete with the slogan 'There's No Place Like Dome' on the reverse. I wonder what my old showbiz chum and antiques supremo Michael Aspel would make of that?