Thanks to my exemplary planning, we arrived in the UK on a Bank Holiday weekend. My default position was that we would lie low in The Son’s house till it was over, but, hey, we were on holiday so let’s go out and see what the Brits get up to on a long weekend.
Our first visit was to Hampton Court where a food festival was being held. If a stall didn’t have the word “artisan” plastered all over it then it wasn’t worth visiting; but most of them did so we sampled various artisan delights, some artisan oysters being my favourite. All very refined darling, but it was bloody hot at over thirty degrees of Mr. Celsius; although I shouldn’t have complained because it was closer to thirty of Mr. Fahrenheit’s degrees for the rest of the holiday.
The next day we went to a more humble event where I never saw the word “artisan”, but there was a wide choice of hot dogs. The weather was cooler and there were many more things to point a camera at; so I did.
I had a long chat with the owner of the Blackstone engine. Turned out he had several of them. “Where do you keep them all?” I enquired.
“In the back kitchen”.
“You must have a very understanding wife!”
“No, he bloody doesn’t”, came from behind some knitting. He gave a wan smile and oiled a cog. For a brief moment we had a shared understanding of our place in the world.