“Good morning,” I said to the woman behind the counter as I closed the door-latch of the chemist’s shop in Burnham Market.
“Good morning,” she said, eating a pear.
“A pear,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, gesturing to a basket out the back with the cellophane untucked. “We had a whole basket of fruit.”
“From a grateful customer?”
“Yes.”

I bought some paracetamol and still had plenty of time to catch the bus from the Green outside, despite our chattiness. This was a friendly place to someone used to London. In fact, anywhere is a friendly place to someone used to London. The only complaint about Burnham is that it is too nice, a bit like the Cotswolds: the houses are well maintained and frighteningly expensive, there are plenty of restaurants, all booked up, and the price of groceries is something.