I bought a beef and chutney sandwich in Cheadle on Saturday. The shop was of note because it seemed out of time, delightfully old school next to all the Greggs and Hampsons, or those expensive delis that haven't quite got over themselves yet. Cooked sausages were congealing deliciously in their own fat next to a big tray of dripping and some ancient meat slicers. The women serving looked like they'd been there slicing all along, easily in their eighties, moving slowly deliberately around the equipment. A middle aged woman caked in powder came in for dripping and warned me not to leave my wallet open on the counter.

‘Be careful. You never know who’s about… someone had my purse right out of my bag the other day.’

Everyone in the shop nodded and muttered.

‘Oh dear, around here was it?’

‘Oh yes. They say it’s all these Europeans who’ve come in’

Good olde England. Later I found myself telling a French man about it in Big Hands but I think my take on it was lost in translation in my shitfaced state and I came across as some kind of Daily Mail toting idiot. Still, at least neither that nor the fact I was talking about chutney in the first place stopped him from kissing me.