Ah, this is the life. I point out to him that you can't get Birds Eye here, and that everything is freshly prepared. I take a bite. Jamie, blinking in the sunlight, is immediately mobbed for autographs. His minder, wearing secret serviceman's sunglasses and improbable moustache, scans the crowd, no doubt thinking what a shame it would be to spoil the afternoon by having to shoot someone.
Time drifts by.
Barely time now to catch up with Jamie, who is already in the village hall judging the cake competition and having his picture taken up to his elbows in tarts. But at last we are tucking into our poppy cake, which the woman behind the counter says won third prize. Odd that there's so much of it left then, I say, though on reflection it does look rather like soil. Still, jolly pukka, as I believe they say in these parts.