The bakery introduced numbered tickets to make its Saturday queue fair. Mrs Finch took number 18 and waited while the screen called 12, 13 and 14.
A man came in, took number 19, and went straight to the counter. The baker handed him a loaf.
“What happened to the queue?” Mrs Finch asked.
“He ordered yesterday,” said the baker. “He’s collecting.”
“Then why did he take a ticket?”
The man looked at the slip. “I thought it was a receipt.”
The baker sighed. “It is now. You’re number 18, so your bread will be ready yesterday.”