Without doubt, this is the most wonderfully classical English time of year.
Wimbledon, the British Grand Prix, strawberries, festivals, blackberries, balmy evenings lathering up with after sun/mosquito repellent and, of course, the unrivalled summer fayres and fetes.
Let’s be brutally honest, they’re pretty tacky. Win a sachet of dehydrated custard in the tombola? Pay a quid and whack a sock filled with lentils sliding down two metres of guttering?
Or have a go at the raffle and (if you’re lucky) win some lacy purple nan soap.
Awful, yet achingly magnificent. Entire communities throwing off the shackles of English stiffness for one day wanging wellies, lucky dipping and trying to win coconuts.