Wending through the grimy, East Cliff back streets to the local Premier (Costcutter in old money) for my copy of Gra*ia last night, I spied the local drug dealer tooling around on his mountain bike. He'd occasionally stop, give his distinctive cheery whistle, and a ghost would approach him with the dosh for the necessary.
How different from three or four years ago when deliveries were made by dudes in top of the range Audis! It's tempting to think the umpteen raids on cannabis factories across the island have driven the poor chap to pedal power, but personally I blame the bankers. They just can't afford the stuff any more.
Let's hope that with Dave and, er, that other bloke now in charge we can ride out this economic crisis and at least get him up to an ice cream van with Brown Sugar blaring out of the Tannoy!