Imagine, if you possibly can, a scenario where I am a quavering, morally vulnerable simpleton.
I know. Inconceivable. But try.
If this were the case, I would be a woman on the brink of the darkest oblivion, as a great challenge has been presented to me. The devil is attempting to contact me via the Southwark Street branch of Marks & Spencer. Specifically, he has placed his sign among the free plastic forks. Look upon it, if you are strong enough, and regard how his horns can be seen in the prongs:
Compare, if you will, the other forks in the flock.
What evils would he have me commit in the church of Marks & Spencer?
Must I lick every individual roll in the fresh bakery area and put them all back on the display?
Use my credit card and get cash back when there is a very long queue and I'm only spending 17p on a banana?
Plunge my idle hands into the bins of crisps and scrunch them all up into tiny crumbs?
Switch around some of the special offer stickers so that exactly the meat and fish products I like are included in the 3 for £10 promotion?
Furtively open a tub of chocolate cornflake mini bites in the shop, eat a couple, put the lid back on and walk away?
Of course, those things would never happen. Apart from, like, the second one. And maybe the third and the fourth. And, if I'm honest, I've thought about the fifth one A LOT.
Because, as you all know, I am morally unimpeachable. Utterly upright. Powerfully principled. An air-puncher. A high-fiver. A winner.
So that's OK then.