This goes back to a stormy night when I was in my early twenties. I was coming back through Sheffield town centre, after visiting my friend, Ernest the Esperantist.
It was the time of night when the pubs start to turn out, and everyone heads for the clubs. I was swaddled against the foul winter weather, but it seemed that everyone else was dressed in the thinnest summer clothing possible, the lads in thin shirts and black trousers, the girls in thin blouses or skimpy tops and mini-skirts.
Suddenly, three girls emerged arm in arm from an alley, and began marching down the road in front of me. The were cackling and weaving a little, obviously pretty merry, so I hung back for fear of getting a ribbing for my heavy winter clothing.
And then, before my disbelieving eyes, all three proceeded to pull their mini-skirts up around their waists, and march down the road for a good fifty yards with their extremely minimal underwear exposed to the stinging sleet. Then just as suddenly, the skirts came back down, and they dodged into a pub, vanishing as if they'd never existed.
Stunned, I continued down the street, until the extent of the opportunity I'd missed struck me like a wallop from the haddock of clarity. And at that moment, I turned my face to the downpour, raised my fist to the skies, and swore a deadly oath that never again would I be caught in such a situation without a camera!
And, so far, I haven't been: