Posh spice

“Hellooo!” she booms when I open the door.

She’s of indeterminate age, with the ruddy complexion of somebody who spends a lot of time outdoors. She’s wearing a quilted sleeveless jacket, a knotty jumper and a pleated skirt. And sensible shoes, of course.

It’s all topped off with a slightly unfashionable bob. Think Clarissa Dickson-Wright – minus a few pounds.

“I wonder if you’d be interested in some manure?” she says, smiling solicitously.

She pauses for dramatic effect, and raises an eyebrow before leaning conspiratorially towards me.

“It’s organic,” she adds, with a leering wink.

I’m tempted to say yes, just to keep the show going. But instead, I politely decline.

“Righty-o,” she chirrups, and smiles the broad smile of one used to rejection. Only to be expected when you’re selling shit door to door in a suburban street.

And she waddles down the path, whistling as she goes.