A deputation from the Pie and Mash Club arrived in Westmoreland Road at the end of Jaunuary '22, to be greeted by a film crew, with all its attendant accessories, flunkies and rubber-neckers, dominating the locale.

To our surprise, we were not the object of its focus; all lenses were trained on TV's Martin Freeman, dramatising in a cafeteria on the other side of the street. Doug Benford's bike was impounded for continuity purposes.

Away from the glare of the arc lights, we ranged ourselves at the lengthy counter of Arments Pie Shop, pondering the culinary choices on offer. Notable for its absence was the eel – unavailable 'till April'. In a mild shock Edward Mosse put on his best theatre 'brave face'.

Cutting a dash – or should that be mash – opposite was Ace of Pies/Big Souper and burgher of Twickenham Pete Riley, keen to relive his short-trousered memories of pie and mash at Arments in the early 1960's.

Pressed into a white-tiled corner Doug dug into the Arments stodge; Al Smith savoured the subtle flavours. Both are regular eelsmen too.

I zoomed my modest lens in to frame these bronze-toppled vehicles. A careful flip, a spoon-edge to the soft underside, a light application of chilli vin and the steaming contents were ready for dispatch.

My fellow tri-pie wrangler was the be-capped Nick Everton, keeping his first Pie and Mash Club appointment for more than a year.

Joining us was our well-travelled Far East correspondent, Colin Price, whose knowledge of Pie and Mash east of the Greenwich meridian is beyond compare.

But before you typecast us as a much-too-manly bunch of luncheon-munchers, here are two ladies eager to participate in our joyful basin of scoff: Eleanore Pond, fellow dramatis persona of E. Mosse esq, and Linda Jones, at last unfettered by the responsibility and discretion of high political office.

As the lunch crowd began to thin, the assembled team of nine colonised the forward alcove of Arments' pie parlour. Meanwhile, activity continued unabated in the adjoining kitchen/pie factory.

The blue hats of the staff convey more a sense of team spirit than company conformity.

Towards the end of the lunch hour Ed carefully negotiated the molten magma of a hot cherry pie.

By the time we reached the street, a bright winter sun was shining and the film crew had evaporated like so much morning mist. The broad pavement here could certainly accommodate a few outdoor tables in the summer months.

Thence to the Queen Elizabeth on Merrow Street, a backstreet boozer of which Walworth should be proud. The 'happy hour' is from 11am to 6pm, and a pint of decent beer – or generous glass of wine – can be had for a good deal less than in the town centre. As the jukebox belted out the Sex Pistols' 'Problem', I began to experience the time dilation of the Happy Hour myself . . .

Power to your drinking elbow,

St@