If we had to fight a war on the home front I’m fairly sure we would be stuffed. I base this claim on what happens if you try to buy a sandwich at ten past three in Surrey.

You walk into a small shop in a nice village. You select a sandwich from the chiller cabinet — egg mayonnaise — and put it down on the counter along with a Diet Coke. You get out your money and look at the lady behind the counter as you wait for her to announce the amount you owe, but instead of taking your money the lady says:

‘Sorry, kitchen’s closed.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Kitchen closed at 3 p.m. Sorry. We’re not doing food.’

‘No, you don’t understand. I don’t want you to make me anything. I’ll just have this sandwich here.’

And at that point, the lady picks up the sandwich and puts it on the other side of the counter, where you can’t reach it.

‘Where are you taking that?’ you say.

‘You can’t have it. Kitchen’s closed,’ she says, before informing you that you can buy the Diet Coke if you want.

‘But I don’t want the Diet Coke without the sandwich. I’m hungry. Can’t I please have the sandwich? It will just go to waste.’

‘Look, the kitchen closed at 3 p.m.,’ she says, sounding very impatient and cross now.

In the end, you persuade her to sell you the sandwich after a protracted struggle in which you threaten to faint from hunger on the floor of the shop. It takes all the verbal and intellectual dexterity you can muster to convince her that it will be infinitely more arduous and inconvenient for her to call an ambulance and have you stretchered out of the shop than if she simply sells you the egg sandwich, even though that is breaking the 3 p.m. rule.

It is a Pyrrhic victory because by the time you start eating it, you’re too worried about what would happen if Britain had to fight a war on the home front to digest it properly.

A few days later, your suspicions about the nation’s ability to mobilise itself are further aroused when you try to buy a burger in Balham at 9.10 p.m.

You walk into the burger and ribs joint opposite the station to find a room full of diners tucking into delicious plates of meat. The chefs at the open grill are happily flipping burgers and poking ribs and a wondrous-smelling smoke rises into the air, leading you to believe that here you will find efficient hospitality. Surely, there will be no ‘no food after we say you can’t have food’ rules here.

You smile as the manager approaches and start to say the words ‘table for two, please’ but then you see his frown.

‘Kitchen closed at nine, guys,’ he says.

You try the line you know won’t work. You know deep, deep in your soul it won’t work but you try it anyway: ‘But it’s only ten past…’

‘Sorry. Kitchen closes at nine on Sunday.’ He shakes his head with sorrowful disdain, as if you were trying to gatecrash the most exclusive private member’s club in London and by just standing there asking for a burger you are ruining the atmosphere for the legitimate burger eaters.

Chastened for a second, you look at those lucky people eating their burgers and you make a mental note to remember that nothing good ever comes from trying to get served somewhere at ten past the hour. ‘You idiot,’ you tell yourself. ‘You utter fool.’

You wander dejectedly outside, feeling like a failure, a reject, a social outcast.

Somehow, you have been made to feel as though you are the only person ever to make the absurd mistake of trying to eat a burger at 9.10 p.m. on a Sunday.

And then you think, hang on, this is London, the greatest city on earth. And it is not ten past nine. It is only ten past nine. And so what if it is Sunday? Are these burger people religious all of a sudden?

Therefore, as you walk away you turn around and shout in the general direction of the burger and ribs place: ‘So you’re all church-going Christians now, are you? Sunday’s a holy day, is it? Well, then, maybe you shouldn’t open at all on the Sabbath. And children should be taught about Adam and Eve and Jesus and, and …if I can’t have a burger at ten past nine I want proper nativity plays in schools!’

And then the boyfriend pulls you by the arm and leads you away. ‘I think Pizza Express is still open,’ he says.

‘I can’t go there,’ you say. ‘I’m boycotting it for serving halal.’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘if you’re going to be picky…’