‘Rob Anybody, I would be very grateful if you would do just that,’ said Tiffany, ‘because I have a lot of people to bandage, if I’m any judge.’

Rob Anybody, suddenly looking like a man on a thankless errand, frantically said the words he had been told by his wife to say: ‘The kelda says there’s plenty more fish in the sea, miss!’

And Tiffany stood perfectly still for a moment. And then, without looking at Rob, said quietly, ‘Do thank the kelda for her angling information. I have to get on, if you don’t mind, Rob. Do thank the kelda.’

Most of the crowd was reaching the bottom of the slope by now, to gawk or rescue or possibly attempt some amateur first aid on the groaning cheese-runners. For the onlookers, of course, it was just another show; you didn’t often see a satisfying pile-up of men and cheeses, and – who knew? – there might be some really interesting casualties.

Tiffany, glad of something to do, did not have to push her way through; the pointy black hat could create a path through a crowd faster than a holy man through a shallow sea. She waved the happy crowd away, with one or two forceful pushes for those of slow uptake. As a matter of fact, as it turned out, the butcher’s bill wasn’t too high this year, with one broken arm, one broken wrist, one broken leg and an enormous number of bruises, cuts and rashes being caused by people sliding most of the way down – grass isn’t always your friend. There were several young men clearly in distress as a result, but they were absolutely definite that they were not going to discuss their injuries with a lady, thank you all the same, so she told them to put a cold compress on the afflicted area, wherever it was, when they got home, and watched them walk unsteadily away.

Well, she’d done all right, hadn’t she? She had used her skills in front of the rubbernecking crowd and, according to what she overheard from the old men and women, had performed well enough.