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This little lot should keep you occupied whilst I sneak off and dissipate myself amongst the fleshpots of Amsterdam – said fleshpots being the hellhole that is the local Dirk Van Den Broek.

No bread, no trolleys, no bags, hundreds of corpulent old bats in headscarves alternately yapping, scowling and elbowing; spoilt firstborn sons, caterwauling without surcease ; sullen, sweaty-smelling staff; items that appear and disappear from week to week – it may be cheap but Tesco’s it ain’t. The redeeming factor is that it sells proper back bacon, though I’m doubtful about this now too, what with the reports of dioxin in Dutch pig feed…

Ah well, I’d best be off and get my game face on. Shopping here is war by other means and a a stern, purposeful demeanour is a useful addition to the armoury. Speaking of which, before I do go I’d better play UN mediator to the cats. Big old grumpy cat is menacing little girly cat over possession of the still-slightly-tepid hot water bottle. Hostilities are about to become open warfare.