LATER, it was described by Rowena, the Rev Rupe's wife as a "somewhat unfortunate altercation."

But then, Rowena has always been a gentlewoman.

Cousin Kate, the sub postmistress, was much more direct: "It was like two cats on heat fighting in a back alley."

Her husband, Mean Mike, has wisely chosen to keep his mouth shut - although he does from time to time run a soothing hand over the scratches on his face. These are taking quite a long time to heal.

It started at a busy time last Saturday just before noon, which is when Kate closes down the post office counter, locks the cash away and makes off across the road for her first weekend G&T in the Beggars' Arms.

This is a never-ending ritual but that does not mean it is no longer a time of some friction. Mike, you see, has to stay on to run the grocery and off-licence sections, which means he misses the Saturday lunchtime drinkies when the village XV has a home game down on The Meadow.

So Mike was already sulking, and Kate was halfway across The Lane, when it started behind the shelves in the far corner of the shop. And, indeed, it did sound a bit like a cat fight in an alley.

"You selfish bitch," came the gruff tones of Desdemona 'Des' Durkin, the boiler suited ex-social worker from Essex and the Dale's latest offcumden. "You know they're in short supply."

"No I don't - and any road, it's a free country. I can buy what I like."

"You could at least leave half a dozen on the shelf - there are other people in this village you know."

"No."

"Well you can at least spare me one."

"Shan't."

"Miserable cow."

There came the sounds of a scuffle and, seconds later, the crash of cascading tins, bottles and Lord knows what.

Terrified at the thought of expensive breakages (he has nightmares about such things) Mean Mike rushed from behind the counter, rounded the end of the shelves, and stopped at one of the stranger tug o' wars in Beggarsdale history.

On one end was Des, who, under her boiler suit, may or may not have the body of a Sumo wrestler (we've never seen so we don't know). On the other was the woman we call Frau Panzer, because of the huge German 4 x 4 she drives (very badly) from her home at Elysian Fields, the now crumbling estate of 1960s "executive homes" half way to Mar'ton.

And, in place of a rope, was a wire hand basket which, as Mike arrived, was ejecting a shower of dark screw top bottles which were exploding like grenades on the floor tiles. As they did so, a sticky brown goo, mixed with shards of glass, oozed out across the floor like gore in a gangster movie.

This, Mike saw immediately, was Branston Pickle, one of Olde England's favourites flavour makers, and it has been in short supply since the factory burned down a month or so ago.

"You silly women," shouted Mike, desperately lunging for the hand basket, "the shortage is over. The factory's back in full production."

At this, Frau Panzer let go and attempted to land a doughty slap at Mike's face.

She has, however, nails like a grisly bear and although her fingers missed, these scarlet scalpels didn't and suddenly Mike was spouting blood.

Even worse, off balance, Desdemona hurtled backwards into a corner devoted to household goods and went down amid a landslide of brushes, buckets, mops and brooms.

And so ended the Battle of Branston, which will live in Beggarsdale folklore for generations.

Like many battles, it was completely unnecessary for the pickle shortage was in fact very short indeed.

Des paid up a few quid for the damage and Mike is suing Frau Panzer. Some hope! As usual, only the lawyers will benefit.

o The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.