“Oi! Take your ‘and off it. It’s my bloody briefcase.”

“No it’s not, that geezer set it right in front me.”

“Looked right at me ‘e did. It’s for me.”

“Look, I know ‘im, he’s my uncle… Fredrick. He was givin’ it to me, ‘e was. Just droppin’ it of. I was expectin’ it.”

“You don’t know ‘im! Anyway, if it’s for you, what’s in it then?”

“It’s personal fings. A bowler ’at for one.”

“A bowler ‘at! Wouldn’t even fit in there, what made you fink of a bloody bowler ’at?”

“Look ‘ere, I admit it doesn’t belong to ‘iver on of us. Let’s just open it up togever an ’ave a peek shall we?”

“Only if we’ll split it fifty, fifty.”

“Well maybe it won’t be the kind of fing you can split fifty fifty; like a bowler hat.”

“There you go again wiv the bloody bowler ’at!”

“I like bowler ’ats.”

“Look, if we can’t split it, sell it and split the brass fifty, fifty.”

“Let’s crack it.

“Where’s the latch? ’Ere it is.”

“Bloody ’ell.”

“I believe that’s a briefcase fulla snakes.”

“It ain’t a bowler ’at.”

View this story's 6 comments.