Every August, in a marquee in the Northamptonshire village I used to live in, three retired headmistresses judge the village cake competition. It is the most ferociously contested fixture in the rural calendar, more political than a Tory leadership race and with considerably better catering.
For nine years running, the rosette went to the same entrant. Her sponges were flawless: risen like a soufflé, jam laid with a spirit level, not a crumb out of place. The rest of us produced the sort of thing that looks as though a Labrador has sat on it.
Then somebody found the Marks & Spencer receipts.
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