Magic

It's actually been a ridiculously busy weekend at work, despite what this photograph may suggest. As things quietened off earlier this evening, it seemed worthwhile getting a shot of John practising his juggling with a bunch of limes.

John - or The Hungry Alpaca, as he's called according to his Nectar card - is actually a pretty interesting bloke to work with. Aside from his juggling (which he's quite happy to demonstrate using knives and flaming objects, though I refuse to be in the vicinity when he's doing it) he's forged paths as both an amateur magician and an online entrepreneur in the past. His sleight-of-hand and card tricks in crowded pubs have, over the years, ensured that he's rarely had to pay for his own drinks, and that's a skill that I can't help but admire.

But greater still, John decided several years ago - pretty much on a whim - to put a Jehovah's Witnesses pamphlet up on eBay for a laugh, and stumbled across one of the most incredible moneymaking schemes I've ever heard of. Pleasantly surprised when someone bought the religious flyer, he followed it up by selling an Oxfam leaflet. And then a notice from the City Council. And then an Argos catalogue. In fact, any old shite that came through his door went up on eBay, and was snapped up in short order. When the supply of junk mail dried up, he looked further afield. A chewing-gum wrapper. A pop bottle. A dirty sock. An empty pizza box, with added grease stain. Not only did these items sell, they actually sparked bidding wars that drove the prices relentlessly up.

It didn't take too long before John realised that most of these items were being bought by the same handful of people. After a bit of digging, he made an astounding discovery; one of the Oxbridge universities had a newly-formed society whose sole purpose was to hold an ongoing competition in which members sought to buy the most absurd item they could possibly find on the internet.

John had unwittingly found a foolproof way of milking rich cretins.

For a while after realising the nature of the monopoly he'd created, he went on a winning streak of garbage-salesmanship. His crowning achievement, in my eyes, was selling "a sense of self-respect" - in reality, just an empty envelope - for thirty-five quid. On this occasion, he even rang the winning bidder in a fit of conscience to try and talk him out of the purchase. The response: "no, no, no, the Society will love this! I'm bound to win this month!"

It couldn't last for long, and indeed, it didn't. Sadly, like many maestros, John simply ran out of ideas. Other sellers popped up, supplying ever more ridiculous and pointless merchandise to those with more money than sense, and John was back to magic tricks, juggling assorted fruit and flammables, and cooking food whenever he had a spare minute.

It's tough at the top.