At 3pm he'd send me on this errand. You'd never get away with it now but I was glad to get out onto the street, walk past the electrical store where the proprietor wept alone with his marital problems among the guts and entrails of vacuum cleaners.
The War Memorial made a crucifix in the square. I'd walk up hill until I reached the dusty shop with its antiquated Eldridge Pope sign, brewers of beer and importers of wines since Thomas Hardy was a boy.
The owner knew what I wanted. With his half-moon glasses glittering, he'd reach down a bottle of Claret and wrap it in tissue paper as if it was a precious gift.
This wrapper would survive the walk back to the printing house. The wine would be tipped into a chipped mug black with the residue of instant coffee.
Sometimes I'd have to repeat the journey.