What stops the newspapers flapping away in the March breezes, outside the newsagents in the middle of a council estate in Elephant and Castle, where I stop to buy my daily fix?
Not an old-fashioned shop scales weight, nor a half-brick, a lump of abandoned concrete or a stone from someone's barren backyard: but a large knob of root ginger, in a suitably Esther-Rantzen-amusing shape.
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