Some years ago, when we moved to Deepest Sussex, I said to the then village shop owner, ‘ I am going to stand outside your shop and ask everyone who comes out with The Guardian to be my friend.’

‘ Mmm well you won’t have many friends Lucy,’ he said.

As it happens, we have found people who spiritually, if not literally, do buy The Guardian.

But an exchange in the village shop this week reminded my that it is the case that the piles of The Daily Mail, The Telegraph, The Times, even The Express go down a lot more quickly than The Guardian.

I stopped on the way home from my upholstery class ( of course I did, Sussex housewife as I am) and asked the lovely woman at the counter whether my husband had been in for his Guardian.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘ I am not sure who he is. Describe him?’

‘Tall, wears glasses, can’t walk very well, Oxbridge accent’’

‘That would cover about half our male customers, so not much of a clue.’ she said.

A fellow upholsterer, in the shop too, said,’ If I was asked to describe my husband, I’d have just said grumpy.’

Lovely woman at the counter said, ‘ I would say fuck knows since the last 15 years and that is just fine by me.’

‘He would have had a voucher to buy The Guardian,’ I said.

‘Ah well, he hasn’t been in. No Guardians sold so far today. Here, have one – bring in the voucher when you next pass – I am pretty sure we won’t run out.’