LISA’S small and compact fairtrade jewellery and clothing stall is seen most days below the tower of St Michael at the Northgate Church. With its blue plastic shade protecting the stock from the extremes of weather, it is so much part of the Cornmarket Street scene.

It is only when Lisa is running late and she is seen assembling the stall, and it resembles some giant Meccano contraption that you realise what a neat piece of engineering it is.

The stall was designed and built by Lisa’s other half, Simon, a decade ago. It was made in such a way that it could be dismantled and stored in Lisa’s van, which also serves as a home during the week.

She travels from her home in Glastonbury every Monday, and has until 10am to assemble the stall and display the jewellery and clothing, most of which she makes herself, before having to move the van to comply with the traffic-free regulations.

Lisa has been working from her stall in the city for more than four years. However, her family’s links with the city – the Scholeys – go back many years.

She was nervously watching the clock but was too polite to tell me to push off. However, I returned later to learn civil enforcement officers had pounced and handed her a ticket, because the van was in the street after the curfew.

Had my interruption been instrumental in causing the delay? Guilt was overwhelming and I felt obliged to buy a matching earrings and necklace set – not for me, I hasten to add!

THERE’S no one to blame but me. Had I not succumbed to temptation and bought a crèpe from the Covered Market and decided to eat it perched on one of the much-maligned seats in Cornmarket Street, it wouldn’t have happened.

I hadn’t started to eat it when the little girl – not yet five, he father later announced – looked longingly at the maple syrup-sweetened delight.

“Can I have one, please?” she asked her parent.

“Are you sure you’d like it? I don't think you’ve had one before,” he said.

She looked longingly at the tray, then at me with pleading eyes. Kids know how to pull my strings.

The fork was still unsullied, so I asked dad’s permission to cut a piece for her. He agreed and the girl tucked in.

“What are you eating?” The question came from an older boy and girl who emerged from behind us. They were her brother and sister.

“Is it nice?” asked the brother.

There was a brief silence. What could I do but slice off two more tastings, leaving less than half the original crèpe?

The sticky-fingered children and their dad thanked me. Perhaps they would go to the Covered Market and buy their own.

“You seem to have lost out,” said dad with a hearty chuckle. I agreed, but as I said earlier, there was no-one to blame but me.