Now don’t get me wrong. My first job was at Fortnum & Mason, and that job had nothing to do with my hitherto love of the exotic and epicurean.
Not withstanding, it was slightly nose-out-of-joint-putting to call in there last Wednesday en (bus et train) route to Heathrow, stand at the cheese counter and be served my Cornish Yarg and Montgomery Cheddar by someone decidedly Slav. She was charming, but that is not my point.
But then, buying six quid’s worth of “Yorkshire Pecorino”, I kid you not, was not un-odd either.