There is no hour so swift-footed, no hour so fleeting, as the one allotted to lunch when you are at your temp job.

Yesterday at lunchtime, white flowers spelled PAT on the side of a hearse parked in front of the Holy Redeemer Church. There was a group of black-suited men by the car, and one among them had just said something to make them smile. The youngest of the six laughed with the rest, but his eyes were swollen, and red.

Down Exmouth Market, there is a storefront in peeling forest green. On the top, gold paint reads: “Clark’s”. On one side of this it says: PIE & MASH. On the other side it says: EELS. Inside, small globe lamps, cracked enamel tiles, two pie ladies, and hello hello hello what have we here, a booth of constables at lunch. The pie lady drying the dishes pointed out the bottle of hot vinegar. “Sometimes people like a bit of a kick,” she said.

Getting there for a small pie and mash before the queue started out the door means there was time enough afterwards to pop into the café a few doors down for a cappuccino and a cannelé bordelais. The handwritten sign on the cannelé read: Baked in copper moulds. Crispy on the outside. Soft in the middle. Delighted in at a high wooden table, with a book, and the winter light over the footed bowl of meringues, this made for a very civilised lunch hour.