The King and I (special edition on the King's anniversary)

I bumped into Elvis last week at the express checkout in Murphy’s Supermarket. Actually, I didn't just bump into him: I was in such a tearing hurry at the time that I hit him with my trolley and knocked him clean off his feet.

"Sorry about that, chief," I said, helping him up again. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

He waved away my apologies.

"I slipped, I stumbled, I fell," he said graciously as I dusted him down. What can I say? More than twenty years after his funeral, the bloke is still a class act.

"So you've been hiding in Ireland all this time," I said, picking up the last of his burger buns. "But why did you pretend to die in the first place?"

"Just because," he drawled - a touch evasively, it seemed to me.

"Oh come on, Elvis, you can trust me," I persisted. "Why did you really pretend to die?"

"Well now, since my baby left..." he began, and I was sorry I had asked. It sounded like the beginning of a long story and 'The Weakest Link' was starting in ten minutes.

"So why have you decided to reveal yourself?" I cut in. "I mean, why now, after all these years?"

"Doncha' think it's time?" he asked.

"I suppose you're right," I agreed. "And we've all missed you terribly. But it's not going to be easy for you, coming back from the dead like this. Are you sure you can handle the pressure?"

He shrugged, in the way only Elvis can shrug. "It's now or never," he said.

"So what do you think the press will do when the story breaks?" I asked him.

"Treat me nice?" he asked hopefully.

I patted him on the shoulder. "I hate to tell you this, my friend, but they'll have you for breakfast."

"(Now and then) there's a fool such as I," he sighed. It sounded downright poetic the way he said it, and I told him so.

When the checkout girl told him the total, I offered to pay for his purchases. It was the least I could do after knocking him down like that.

"Don't," he said, and I didn't press the point. To be honest, it was a relief when he refused the offer. He had that many hamburgers, bananas and jars of peanut butter, I would have been hard pressed to cover the bill.

As we left the shop, I could see people turning to have a second look. Some of them were nudging one another and pointing, and I hoped Elvis wouldn't be offended by their rudeness. In fairness, though, it's not every day that a bloke walks out of Murphy’s Supermarket wearing white silk flares and a gold lamé jacket. In rhinestone-encrusted boots, at that.

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