Cast: customer (mid-late fifties, male, shirt and tie, tweed jacket, with the bucolic gait and ruddy countenance of, perhaps, a farmer; sales assistant (the eponymous Saturday girl).
Customer: I'd like a bra, please.
Saturday girl: Certainly, sir. What size?
Customer: Oh, er... I don't really know.
Saturday girl: Ok, well. Any idea what type?
Customer: What type?
Saturday girl: What type of bra?
Customer: Well, one to hold a pair o' boobs o' course (he laughs).
Saturday girl: Ah, ok sir. So, er... how big are they?
Customer: Well how should I know? How big do you think they are?
Saturday girl: Who is the bra for, sir?
Customer: For?
Saturday girl: Yes, perhaps it would be better for the person to come to the store themselves? We can measure them. We have a specialist bra-fitting service and...
Customer: What d'you mean? I'm not sure I want anyone fiddling around wi' a tape measure underneath me shirt. Besides, I'm ticklish.
Saturday girl: Well yes, of course, sir, but...
(A penny drops, from a great height and making quite a din, like a gong in the monastic silence of a cathedral-size acoustic.)
Saturday girl: (quietly) Who did you say the bra was for, sir?
Customer: Why - me o' course.
Exeunt, pursued by a bra.
