Panic took hold in the supermarket revolving door. It held about six people in one half and the same number in the other. Provided nothing touched the sides, it released shoppers into the store or on to the pavement, in a twinkle.

But something did touch the side, the sensors did their stuff and the door ground to a halt, trapping four outward-going souls and seven heading the other way.

The culprit' was a broom handle protruding from a trolley steered by a be-whiskered elderly man. He tried pushing the door, but nothing happened. He glared accusingly at the in-comers.

A child in arms, eyeball-to-eyeball with those whiskers through the glass, burst into tears. The child's father rapped angrily on the dividing panel, adding to the delay by activating the sensor.

Meanwhile another outward-bound customer grasped her throat dramatically, indicating either lack of oxygen or an imminent attack of claustrophobia.

The elderly man's wife tried to comfort her, at the same telling her husband to do something. He yelled that he was doing all he could.

Encouraged by the other child in tears, a toddler on the inward side began to cry and her mother shouted for help. This alerted a young Saturday girl who, lacking experience in such emergencies, resorted to arm waving.

Then, as if by magic, the door moved. There was no magic it was just that no-one or nothing touched the framework. The sections emptied. The panic was over.

The incident lasted no more than 30 seconds, but what drama!

Maybe I should get a life. While walking from Longwall Street to The Plain, I counted the cyclists pedalling in the same direction, paying particular attention to their protective headgear or lack of it.

Seventy-one riders of various ages and size passed, of which a paltry 17 wore helmets. Of those, only five were female.

Could it be that most women and girls will risk all rather than cram their hairdo into an unlovely crown of plastic?