TWO weeks ago a young woman on a Westgate Centre stall promoting natural cosmetics had tried to sell me an expensive system of nail treatments for my daughter.

On Tuesday she smiled and introduced me to a new colleague. This was in spite of my having resisted her sales patter.

Minutes later the T-shirt salesman asked if my grandson liked the unique design I had chosen a month ago.

The watch salesman, who some weeks back had gone to a lot of trouble when the cheap every-day watch I had bought was not living up to expectations, made a point of asking if all was well with the replacement.

How pleasant it was to be remembered. It was only when I approached a stall where staff were encouraging the public to consider employing a personal trainer that my sunny day turned cloudy.

The smiling canvasser approached – then stopped. Nothing was spoken; the expression said it all. Personal trainers can do only so much.

THE notice in the window of the café/bar in Golden Cross was small but easy to read. It said: ‘Staff required. Hard working. Enthusiastic/positive attitude. Good understanding of English.’ “It’s a no-go for you,” said former Big Issue salesman Kevin as he prodded me in the back. “Your Yorkshire accent will kill your chances.”

This from a broth-of-a-boy Irishman whose accent calls for an interpreter armed with a road drill to penetrate!

I’M of a forgiving nature so when my friend Kevin, the Big Issue seller suggested he join me on my stroll, how could I refuse? Some of us never learn.

We crossed High Street, walked down Magpie Lane, took the path between Merton and Corpus Christi Colleges and gazed across well-manicured sports fields.

A late middle-aged couple were looking through the bars of a gate into a beautifully maintained garden.

They were from Tyneside, on a day trip to the city, part of a week-long tour of the area.

“Who looks after that canny lawn?” asked the man.

Kevin leapt in. “The job goes to any choirboy at Christ Church who upsets the choirmaster,” he said.

“Still, I suppose boys enjoy driving a sit-upon mower,” suggested the wife. “What sit-upon mower?” said a serious Kevin.

“They use an old push mower with a ten-inch cylinder blade. The job’s a killer.”

The couple were shocked to their Geordie boots. It amounted to child abuse, she said. How long had it been going on? Kevin was warming to develop the yarn, but for once I couldn’t muffle a laugh. They realised it was a joke before inviting Kevin for a cuppa in a St Aldate’s café. The invitation was extended to me, but it was something of an afterthought.

Tuesday had its ups and downs.