Let’s face it, we never even have to get our hands dirty with preparing our own food. It all comes sterile, flavour-free in acres of needless packaging for our convenience. Isn’t the most bizarre statement on any food—‘Grown for Taste’? Why else would you grow food? Vine-ripened tomatoes—‘Grown for Taste’—what is that about? Anyone who wants to work the soil and turns over their suburban garden to an organic vegetable plot is considered slightly barking and as if they’re stuck in the 1970s along with The Good Life. If Jake and I had decided to grow our own produce, half a dozen carrots would have filled up our measly plot. When you’re shoving your shopping trolley round Sainsbury’s you don’t really stop to think about these things—how far we’ve been removed from the nasty business of real life. I’m normally in a rush to get home and watch Trading Spaces—which, and this is a terrifying admission, is the only time I stop and think that maybe there’s a better way of doing things.

While my head tries to wrangle with the problems of the world, we wander round admiring the work and Dean offers words of advice and encouragement to the women, sharing a joke or two. I feel so proud of him that he can care so much to do this. I love him for his energy and his selflessness. I want to give him a big hug, but know I’ll have to wait until later. Later, when we’re alone and private in my love-shack tent. As if he can tell what I’m thinking, Dean turns and smiles at me. He indicates with a nod of his head that we should be going. So we do our round of ‘namastes’, before we wave goodbye and move on.

‘It must be nice to make a difference,’ I say.

‘A small difference,’ Dean says modestly. ‘But, yes, it’s nice.’

‘They obviously think a lot of you.’

‘I guess they do,’ he admits. ‘And even though I’ll always be a foreigner, I have a great sense of belonging here. You can’t get much better than that.’