I walked by a dougnut shop this morning, as I do most mornings (they're rather ubiquitous in this city of yours), and my mind was suddenly overtaken by a memory of many years past. As it's a rather amusing tale and involving our one and only King, I thought I'd share it with you.

King and I spent a summer in England together about five years ago. Not a lot of people know that, but it's true. Anyhoo, we were staying out in the Home Counties, those provincial regions that hug the circumference of London town. One beautiful summer's day, we arranged to meet our chum Leonard in the Metropolis. We arrived at around lunchtime and proceeded to wander around the city in an aimless yet enjoyable way for a number of hours, chatting, gawking and cavorting as three lads are apt to do. At some point it was decided to stop for a pint, a harmless past-time done throughout Christendom from time immemorial. We found a nice little boozer somewhere near Covent Garden and sank a few, slaking our self-induced thirst. A gaggle of around seven people sat down beside us, plonking an enormous pink plastic bag onto the table. Emblazened on the side of this bag was "Dunkin Doughnuts". I had been in England for about nine consecutive months at this stage, and I must admit I was rather staggered by the sight of a dougnut purveyor's goods in such close proximity to me, as back then doughnuts weren't often found in Merrie Olde Englande. Clearly King was feeling the same way because he tapped the nearest girl on the shoulder and asked, "Are those doughnuts?". Now, perhaps the fact that the enormous pink bag screamed that it contained doughnuts answered his question for him, but the tone that this female used in her answer of "yes" was uncalled for and not very sporting at all in my opinion. King, judging by the look in his eye, was feeling spurned and insulted. Leonard and I attempted to pick up his spirits but to no avail, so we left King stewing in his own juices and conversed between ourselves. After a few minutes, King kicked my leg under the table, and lent in towards me. In a consipratorial whisper he said, "prepare to run". Before I could say, "why?", King had leapt to his feet, knocked his stool over, grabbed the enormous pink plastic bag of doughnuts and made a beeline for the door. I was fast on his tail while Leonard, not hearing King's warning, glided gracefully from his seat, bid the adjacent table a good night, and sauntered calmly from the pub. Or so it seemed to me as I chased King down the now darkened street to the tube station, where Leonard eventually caught up to us a couple of minutes later. We now realized that the snotty table hadn't sent anybody to retireve their doughnuts so King was well-pleased with his efforts. Leonard and I were mightily amused by his hijincks and told him so. We separated and King and I made our way to the train station to catch our ride back to the Provinces. The train ride was a picture of communal bliss and solidarity as King walked up and down the train feeding his fellow travellers the four dozen doughnuts liberated from some surly youth workers at a pub in Covent Garden.

Ahhhh, memories...