Eating a mushroom and leek tart and drinking a caffe latte in nicely presented delicatessen, the man behind the counter offers us cake for half price. 'We're on holiday for five days over new year', he tells us. 'And we don't want it to go to waste'. He is young, with a round face and curly hair. He is wearing a black high-necked t-shirt and black jeans. There is a tempting array on offer. I ask which he recommends.
'We're known for our courgette and lemon curd', he says, gesturing towards the frosted cake on the glass stand in front of him. 'And you can't really go wrong with Victoria Sponge'. There is a four layered chocolate cake. 'It tastes like it looks', he says.
My friend asks about the orange and polenta. 'It's mine', says an older woman who is also working behind the counter. Her glasses are bright blue and she is wearing and stripey long-sleeved top. Her wispy grey hair is tied back in a rough ponytail. She explains that she is saving half of it for her niece who is gluten intolerant. I ask about the coffee bundt. 'If you're looking for something sophisticated', she says. She is fond of the lemon drizzle.
We opt for the courgette and lemon curd and, on going to pay, I ask the lady my question. 'Mine's boring', she says (it's Jane). 'You should ask him'. She points towards the round-faced boy. I ask. He gives me an answer. 'His first name is Harroway', she says. He explains that he was named after the last Saxon man standing in 1066, although Google is unable to confirm this for me later. He thinks his middle names are family names.
I realise, on leaving, that I should have asked if his surname makes his initial quadruple.
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