On a work trip to Cue (go to Geraldton, turn right and drive through the iron ore country for 400-odd kilometres), Prudence hosted a sausage sizzle in the main street.
Colleague J was earnestly chatting to a local about this and that, when the local's face lit up, she looked slightly to the right, and exclaimed: "Pussy!"
J was quite discombobulated, until she about-faced, to be facing a morbidly obese, middle-aged man in a t-shirt of dubious vintage, stubbies (always dubious) and thongs ('nuff said), along with a receding hairline and shoulder-length greasy curls. And quite an unnerving smile.
The oddest thing was, he didn't seem to mind being called Pussy.