Since last we spoke, dear Reader, the deed has been done. Our automated inventory has been tested and not found wanting, which is both a relief and a slight disappointment: it’s always fun to find fault. As I moved boxes, counted and stacked, I couldn’t help but remember when my parents owned the village shop in a very small and beautiful corner of Argyll. The annual stocktake there was a family affair: ‘Children properly managed can be made to pay’ my mother was fond of saying, and as there were five of us she had a vested interest in making it true. Some would weigh gobstoppers, others count tins of tomatoes; anyone left would try to peel apart the rather curly postcards to gauge how many we had sold – we couldn’t do them by weight of course, as they soaked up rather a lot of damp. I don’t suppose the figures we arrived at were particularly accurate (certainly from the sweet department: a LOT were eaten rather than counted) but it seemed to work, on the whole. Or if it didn’t, we never knew, and it probably didn’t matter much: the business was my parents’ service to the community, definitely not a money maker. Which was all part of the innocence of the age, come to think of it. All I can tell you is that tea towels are no quicker to count than sherbet dib-dabs, and they doubtless taste far less nice.