The Black Pudding Hunt . . .

Visited the local farmers' market today to stock up our black pudding cellar . . .

In the car park there was an enclosure occupied by the biggest, fiercest, noisiest, nastiest gang of roosters I've ever seen outside of a Tory convention. "Why is there never a policeman or a fox around when you need one?," muttered Jools as we tiptoed past, trying not to distract their cacophonous attention away from the small dog and two passing kids they were mercilessly browbeating.

Thinking we'd escaped, we rounded the corner and entered the store, only to be greeted by more heckling, this time from this merry band of Elvis lookalikes perched at head height on a straw bale attached to the wall. "Bloody hell, this is an agricultural madhouse. Let's get out of here," cried Jools, as we fled back to the truck.

In our haste to get away, we forgot the black pudding. Tomorrow, maybe . . . but from the supermarket!