At the till in Poundland, I was asked by the girl behind the counter if the wickerwork cycle basket I was carrying belonged to me. I said it did. She giggled, then stood up, leaned forward and clutched her hands to her face. I asked what was wrong. She said something about me wearing red shoes too. I looked down at my crimson Crocs.  She giggled again and said I was just like Dorothy. Dorothy, I queried? Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Ah, I replied.