Sometimes, disappointments barely register. Afterwards, you congratulate yourself heartily, administering Heimlich-strength pats on your own back. “Ten years ago, that would have really floored me,” you ruminate, with high pride. “There’s progress! Haven’t I come on!” You might phone a friend and brag about the absence of an entirely justifiable fit of pique. Your friend will express approval – mild or strong – or at least a little interest. Almost nothing is enough. Briefly you look on the continent that is your personality as a highly developed state. All is well. Then, at other times, the slightest thing seems a great deal more than you can bear.

It wasn’t the Cornish pasty that was at fault. It was a question of perception. When the plan was hatched to buy some pasties and we drove to the dairy and selected the medium-sized Traditionals and watched as they were wrapped by the lady in the pinny whose hair was flecked with flour, and the cost was indelibly scored on the half-cellophaned bags, I was in a wonderful trance.