I was recently asked whether I still visited my favourite Ealing hostelry as they hadn't heard about it for some time.

Well, it's funny that someone should ask . . . !

This month, we join six retired regulars who meet there every Friday evening for a quick game of poker before heading off back home to their wives. They are only on their second round when Jim loses £500 on a single hand, but then within a few seconds clutches his chest and drops dead at the table.

As a mark of respect for their fallen comrade, the other five decide to continue the game standing up.

After a while, Bill looks round at the other players and asks, "I guess we're gonna' have to tell Jim's wife, but who's going to do it?"

They decide to draw straws and Mark picks the short one.

"Look", they tell him, "whatever you do be discreet; be gentle and don't make a bad situation any worse."

"Discreet?", says Mark, "Look, I'm the most discreet man you will ever meet. Discretion is my middle name. Just leave it to me."

So Mark goes over to Jim's apartment and knocks on the door. It's answered by Jim's wife who asks what he wants.

"Your husband has just lost £500 and is afraid to come home".

"So he should be!", Jim's wife retorts, "You just tell him he can drop dead!" she yells.

"Err Right . . . . I'll go tell him!"