Like a clever metaphor that I'll forget to fill in later, we're having to cast our net of nourishment ever further in search of new loaves, new cinnamon buns. Pushing our chauffeur well past his theoretical limits brings us at warp speed to the "large village" (so says the all-seeing Wikipedia) of Wickham Market. Pay, display and sashay to The Tea Pot, a trad tearoom that's geometrically sited at the corner of the square.

Sun has got his hat on (hip hip hooray), though we four musketeers aren't going out to play unless we can nab the Chesney Hawkes parasol. Fortunately, by the time we've ordered inside, the shady table has vacated outside. 'Tis a pleasant spot to watch the horn-happy Market motorists go tootingly by. Observe that cyclists are especially welcome: they've thoughtfully provided an external wall against which to lean your boneshaker.

Andy and me had made our selections from the anonymousy priced "specials" board. Him with the runners-up sausage & herb pie, me with the winners' corn beef hash. My CBH was pre-empted by some welcome crusty bread, then was presented in a one-is-fun dish complete with chip. Good, but would have benefited from a splash of HP and a spoonful of baked beans in my plebby opinion. Grenvyle and Kev played it safe with filled bread products, G. claiming the crisps.

K., devoid of Walkers, decried that the lemon meringue was bought-in. Deluded, he bet on the outcome ... and lost an English pound. Which I put towards my carrot stroke passion cake, a patch puddingy. Service was OK. Whole experience was OK. Was I wrong to expect/want more?

If it was a car -- Reliant Scimitar.
If they were passing by -- Jacqueline King.