Back in the early Eighties, two things revolutionised my mum’s life. The first was the appearance, nearby, of a vast supermarket. A gleaming metal-and-glass citadel of cheap, fresh produce. Imagine – bread, milk, fish, meat, fruit, veg and treats all under one roof. It was the stuff of a housewife’s dreams. The second was her first car. The rush of liberty she got from her wheezing, second-hand Ford Cortina is likely unimaginable to the 21st-century mind. Everyone has a car now, if not two. We take for granted being able to zoom everywhere, anytime, rain or shine. It was different then. The motorcar was no ordinary convenience – it was the great liberator from slog.

It is hard to describe to people who have grown up in the era of Amazon, Deliveroo and near-universal car ownership just how much time women would spend traipsing to shops. The number of woman-hours lost to filling the larder – yes, it was mainly woman-hours back then – was extraordinary. I remember it (kids were always in tow, for where else would we be?): first to the fishmonger, then the butcher’s, then the greengrocer’s, then the bakers, lugging your acquisitions in bulging bags as you went.