Dolores

On my street, a lady has a collection of wares piled up on the pavement that she is looking to sell.  There is a loud beeping as I walk past.  'It's my fire alarm', she says, opening a cardboard box to try and turn it off.  She is middle-aged, with frizzy red hair underneath a khaki fisherman's hat.  She is wearing an over-sized t-shirt on which is printed a colourful map of Barbados.

'Do you want it?' she asks.  'I can do it for you for two pounds'.  Having stopped the beeping, it promptly starts again.  'It's loud', she tells me.  I confirm that I can hear it.  'You just stick it to the wall', she says, 'I got given two of them so I've got this one spare, they're a fiver in the shops'.  I tell her that I need one that is attached to the mains.  'This doesn't even need a battery', she says with confidence.  I decide against.

'I think you've bought something from me before', she says.  'I recognise you'.  I'm not sure that I have but don't deny the possibility.  'Perhaps', I say and, before moving on, I ask my question.  The alarm has stopped beeping and is back in its box.  She is happy to give me an answer.