I really must get up

Desperate. That was the word that started the chain of thought. Desperate for a pee. I really must get up.
Desperate Dan. In the Dandy. Shaves with a blowtorch. Eats cow pie. You know it's cow pie because of the horns sticking out of the pastry.


I blink in the midday brightness with the Saturday morning cinema club sing-song echoing, 'We're all for one and one for all, the East Ham Granadiers.' Shockingly bright with the fall of snow which had quietly settled while we were heading them off at the pass with Hopalong Cassidy.
Sliding in solid snow of the tyre tracks from the occasional car, I dash along Wakefield street. Hurrying to be one of the first to the counter where all the slim, war-time comics would be spread enticingly. That little newsagent's shop in Katherine road, right next door to the acrid smelling shop where I took the accumulators from our wireless for re-charging each week. The old chap usually saved his week's comic ration for the gang of us from the Granada. Might be a Dandy if I'm lucky - although I am tending towards the story comics, the Hotspur, Wizard or Rover, these days.
One of the boys slopes off with a free Beano while the shopkeeper reaches for a jar of acid drops from the shelf. Fourpence a quarter in a paper bag.
No Dandy, though. Manage to spend my tuppence on the last, slightly torn, Adventure.

It's no good, I really must get up . . .