"I don't want the blighter fer a reglar customer," says the fruiterer.
Three potatoes whirl past me at the fruiterer. The lady with the bucket departs rapidly.
"Lemme get at 'er," cries the irate fruiterer.
"You wouldn't hit a woman," I protest.
"Wouldn't I?" says the infuriated fruiterer.
I interpose—verbally. "You'll get everything stolen," I say, "from your stall if you leave it."
"I'll leave you in charge."
"I'm needed down my beat," I reply, and stalk on instantly, leaving a sadly disillusioned man behind me.
I reach a queue outside a grocer's shop.
"There now," says a stout lady, "give 'er in charge."