We have blackberries.
No, not those mobile phone contraptions, real ones, thousands of them and all the size of golf balls.
I'm hanging my head in shame because last week it was the Village Show and we entered zilch, nada, absolutely nothing, not a bean, not a carrot, not a sock, not a quilt.
This is terrible after the last two years of triumph but the thinking was that we must let others have a chance, plus the Tinker spent the entire year worried sick he might be burgled and that silver cup would be stolen.
But had we been ready in time I think we could have entered Bookhound's Blackberry and Apple Jam.
This is the very real thing and something of a tradition.
We don't indulge in an excess of measuring or temperature taking, it's all thrown in the preserving pan and quickly up to that rolling boil followed by the test-for-puckering moment and it's done.
For the non-jammers amongst you, this is when you gaze at a sample blob of jam on a saucer for a minute or two and then gently push it to see if it puckers. Apparently this year we were a bit premature on the test-for-puckering and had to go for the re-boil.
As I walked in the door the carnage in the kitchen was just being hosed down, I suspect it had looked a bit like an abbatoir a few minutes before and there will be a few intransigent sticky patches on the floor and the Aga, and strangely up near the ceiling for a few weeks yet.
There can be advantages to going out to work and just leaving them to get on with it, if you saw it in progress you'd probably be hyperventilating.
As this is boy's own you get sticky jars, wonky wax discs, none of those frilly fabric lid covers all neatly done with pinking shears.Cellophane and rubber bands will do fine because it'll be gone in a flash and no labels, you just have to guess the contents.
But I bet every WI judge in the land would have been clutching at the man's apron strings begging for his secret recipe and his method.
As it is they're not getting a look in because we're going to eat it all ourselves.