When you've:

• wound up the watering holes of Woodbridge,
• fully frequented the filling stations of Felixstowe,
• and feasted on the fast food of Framlingham,

... then where and what next?

James Brown looked down and told us to take it to the bridge. Plain sailing over the Pont d'Orwell paying no heed to the troubled waters beneath, then down past the ski slope and along The Strand, where you're never alone. Under the towering structure and keep going until you're nearly but not quite in the freakishly named village of Freston. Lo, here's the sign to the Suffolk Food Hall.

Past the butcher, the baker, the charcuterie maker and through to the compact cafe towards the back, a petite area that's still twice the size of Kitty's. So small, in fact, that there's no free tables. We park ourselves like shy fools on high stools and try to find a menu. There's a free-floating specials board which has a host of tasty sounding choices. Wee bit of um, soupcon of ah, sprinkling of er ... spicy beans and bacon on toast, if you'd be so kind. Ooh, and an apple and rhubarb juice. Lovely.

In a tactical move designed to test the mettle of the serving staff, we then head for an up-the-stairs table on the gallery that overlooks the hall. This is some kind of hinterland, a DMZ, the final resting place of the Duke Of York's men. Full marks to the nice young ladies for finding us with our hot food: quality items, one and all.

Only me for pudd -- lightweights, those two -- and I go downstairs to examine the cakes and place an order with the nice lady, who then directs me upstairs to the Samford Restaurant. Confused? I'm told the same menu is on offer both down (open plan) and up (hermetically sealed): as clear as a Strictly vote. Good but not great Victoria sponge (enviously eyed by A&G), very good Americano. And there's a little play area outside for us to run around afterwards, if we were only four decades younger.

If it was a car -- Audi Q5.
If they were passing by -- Hermione Norris.