We were at Ford market yesterday and I was buying four packets of seed for £2. I handed over a crisp tenner, and the costermonger asked if I wanted a bag. Although I thought it was odd him bothering to ask, I actually did want a bag, so I said yes. As I followed him over the obstacle course towards his ‘bag lair’, I found myself doling out silent congratulations that I hadn’t parted with a twenty quid note, which he would no doubt try to pretend had been a tenner, after breaking my concentration with this bag malarky. There was no way he would try it with a tenner, though, I was thinking, just as he swivelled around, make a big palavar of getting the bag open and shovelling my purchases in, and slid three quid across my palm. I looked at the coins as he turned away, shook my head in silent disgust, searched for suitable words, then, realising time was of the essence, called after him: “Hey, what about the fiver?” He refused to meet my eye, mumbled, “Ah, of course, it was a tenner, wasn’t it …” and called out to his sidekick to supply me with the missing note. Blatent, or what?