The sun was shining, I stood at my stall, hawking my home baking and surreptitiously doing the Guardian crossword to avoid eye contact with the man with the scary teeth and builder’s bum. A lady of indeterminate age picked through the jars on the table, inspecting each with quietly intent concentration and lining up the labels on their return to ground zero. Lilleth, of garden envy and the slender legs strolled up to the stall, ice cream in one hand and the other shading her eyes. In her tights, on her left thigh, I spied a small hole.
“Hello,” said I, addressing Lilleth as I noted her gappily clad thigh and not (more fool me) the head of the indeterminate lady snap up , “Can I put my finger in your little hole?”
A gasp from the lady, lemon curd clutched in her quivering paw.
Realising my faux pas and keen to placate her starey eyes, I countered, “Lemon curd! Home made with my own eggs!”
Not helpful as she widened her stare and I thought I detected a slight wobble of her bottom lip.
“Not my own eggs, obviously! That would be a very special lemon curd. Too expensive to sell on the stall… It would have to be a tiny jar…” I heard the desperate wittering creep into my voice, “It’s good on toast! And in a sponge cake… with whipped cream…”
Needless to say, Mrs Woman did not buy my lemon curd, but returned it with a thump to the table and stalked away as Lilleth, doubled up in giggles, proffered her crooked knee with its perforated tights for my finger inserting delectation.
Just another day at the market Stricken, as ever, by my terminal foot in mouth disease.