Or me, as it happens.

I was sauntering through Cas Vegas with my son-in-law and munching on a rather splendid pork pie when we were approached by a grubby old woman flogging something-or-other nobody would want.  In less enlightened times I might have called her a gypsy.  Not so today.  Oh no.  You don’t catch me out like that.  “Traveller” or “Itinerant” I would use in this delicate company.  Either way, whatever you would want to call her it didn’t make her any less old or grubby or her wares any more marketable.

“Begone, you snaggle-toothed hag” I said to her.  “And forget the evil eye; I don’t buy into any of that mumbo-jumbo”.

Anyroadup, Rob and I continued our cordial natter through the high spots of down town Castleford with me still gobbling my pie.

Now I ought to explain that I have a rather individual and childish way of doing this.  I nibble off most of the crust from the outside to leave the meat, the best bit, till last.

You’ve probably got ahead of me by now but for anyone hard of understanding I’ll explain that at this point the wodge of greasy meat shot from my grasp onto the pavement.

“Fucking lousy itinerant woman!” I might have said.

Instant Karma, see?