Of Jogging - and Memories

Here's one!
Mrs Pither was channel hopping while I was ironing the ferrets or building the Bismark or something (I forget now) when she alighted on Crimewatch and I couldn't help but bend an ear to parts of the programme.
Kirsty Young (I'm single again Kirsty, if you're reading this) was in the chair this
week and with fitting gravitas she described a string of violent but unsolved crimes which had been perpetrated across the country.
Her husky, Scottish tones were interrupted intermittently when we were shown re-enactments of these horrors but Kirsty always reappeared to appeal as usual to us, Joe Public, for help in catching the villains.
Kirsty was at pains to point out just how many Crimewatch viewers had, over the years, come forward as witnesses having watched the programme and been responsible for scores of murders, rapes and robberies being solved.
It was at that point my mind fell to wandering and I puzzled over just how someone could remember a crime having seen it on Crimewatch but not when they were actually at the scene at the time?

"Ooh, come quick Doris, look at this on the telly!"
"What's wrong Alf? I'm lancing the cat's piles."
"Come quick! It's just like when we were in the Post Office last Tuesday and those three lads barged in front of us in the queue. Do you remember?"
"No. Which lads?"
"You remember! They were dressed in black and were all wearing ski masks. One of them hit Mrs Jackson over the head with a hammer?"
"Wasn't that in Somerfield? You know, when that girl short-changed us over the sherry?"
"Nah. I'm pretty sure it was the Post Office. I remember thinking it was unusual because Mrs Jackson normally goes to bingo on a Tuesday. I think you said to one of the lads 'Excuse me young man but some of us have been waiting here for ten minutes.'"
"Oh yes, they were students on some rag week thing, weren't they?"
"Well, I thought so. I went to give one of them 50p but he hit me in the stomach with a crowbar."
"That was so rude. I don't know, young people today."
"The Crimewatch people are appealing for witnesses. Do you remember anything about it?"
"Yes. I remember that they didn't have any brown wrapping paper in stock."
"Oh yes, that's right. And they didn't have my rough shag. Anything else?"
"No, not a thing. The big lad with the lisp, the limp and the one arm tattooed with a crucifix above the words 'My Name Is Dennis Pilkington' just blasted Mrs Dillrimple behind the counter with a sawn-off shotgun and then left."
"Why did Mr Etherington take a funny turn while we were there?"
"I don't know. He just went all moody and quiet after the other lad - you know, the 4ft 3ins one with the club foot and the Venezuelan accent? - stabbed him with that machete."
"He's always been a funny bloke, Mr Etherington."
"The Crimewatch people want to hear from anyone who saw or heard anything suspicious near the Post Office that day."
"Well we didn't! I couldn't hear a thing because the third lad - you know, the one I used to clean for?' - kept shouting 'Don't nobody come near my 'ouse at 34a Titherington Gardens, Hounslow, HO4 9SJ. I'm serious!!' as he and the others ran out with that bag marked 'swag'."
"That's right. And we couldn't see anything either because that van they all drove off in, the white Ford Transit with the dented offside, front wing, registration number D976 4EY, was blocking our view of the street."
"Wait a minute!"
"What?"
"I remember something now. We had to go to Clinton's to get a birthday card for our Nick, didn't we, on account of Mrs Dillrimple having no face left and being dead 'n' all?"
"Ooh, that's right. You are clever. Still, you always did have an eye for the out of the ordinary."

Nothing for Grantham.