Schadenfreude

 I confess that I suffer from schadenfreude. There, I've confided in you  but please don't tell anyone else. I don't have it badly: I take only the mildest pleasure in somebody's minor pratfall. Yet I do giggle when a woman in expensive high heels and a lavish hairdo drops her £3k handbag and her dusty and unclean personal belongings roll all over the pavement. In fact, that's worth a snort. Or two. Tee hee.

Usually though, I'm worse when I am envious. I have always wanted to go up in one of those boxes attached to a crane attached to a lorry that they use to put the Christmas lights up. Or similar lofty items.

If I had the chance - and I have flirted with many operatives to let me in but to no avail - I would open a bottle of champagne up there and have myself a merry little party, raising my glass to you land-locked folks.

BUT, yesterday my boat came home. I was having a coffee in my usual happy place when my morning suddenly became so much happier. The privileged chap was working outside a posh department store opposite when he dropped the banner he was holding.

Deffo worth a guffaw - and just look at the name of his firm! Also take a shifty shufti at the look on his face when he realises he will have to lower the box and rescue the item. By now a small but highly appreciative crowd had gathered on the pavement: some wished him well but others were tittering. even snickering. That's what is so good about schadenfreude: the wealth of expressive synonyms for reactions.

My coffee was now cold but we must suffer for enjoyment. I was not giving up until the fat lady sang. But she did warble when he wound himself up (although he had been even more wound up before - such are the vagaries of English), managed to get the banner in place and we all went home, deeply satisfied. It merited that glass of champers anyway and I chortled as I sipped. Wouldn't you - honestly?