When I was a child we had a customer who called into the shop on her way home from work. She thought herself a housekeeper Mum thought her a skivvy. She was known by us as “Mrs Pheasant”.
“I would like a small tin of Colman’s Mustard please. We are having Pheasant this evening”
When the shop was empty Mum would mutter about “eating the leavings from a rich mans table” and how she would “rather live on bread and lard”
I would stay silent in my den under the counter and think Pheasant (whatever it was) sounded better than lard.