Yabba-Dabba-Doo!

    I just got off the train at jam-packed, peak-hour Victoria station. The crush of the human herd in this vicinity was, as usual, astonishing, and made much worse because of the building works being undertaken just outside on the street (some sort of underground station extension, beneath the intersection). I came out of the side entrance and wended my way through the high-powered and the underdog alike. A booming sound began to be distinguishable above the traffic, and it gradually became more familiar - it was in fact the theme music from The Flintstones, as if blasted through a trombone. As I continued up the crowded street the source of the cacophony was revealed: sitting cross-legged on the broad flagstones of the dirty street was a man in his late-twenties. He was spectacularly grimed with the filth of the city. In one hand he held out his black cap, which contained a few silver coins; in the other he held a fluorescent orange traffic cone, battered and filthy, up to his mouth. He was blasting the Flintstones' theme through it, trumpet-like, as a child might through a cardboard toilet roll tube. I reached into my pocket for some gold to add to his silver and dropped the pieces into his hat.
    "TA, BRUV!" he bellowed through the cone, mid-blast.
    I always try to reward ingenuity wherever I find it. And he was, after all, almost pitch-perfect, which was an added bonus.