I raised the hurricane lamp and peered into the musty cobwebbed depths of tunnel 4a. As I inched forwards I stubbed my toe.

'Ooyah bandit.'  I put the lantern down so I could rub my foot and saw that the offending item was a battered CD of Mike Oldfield's second opus,  Hergest Ridge, which was wedged inconveniently between the tunnel wall and a large, slightly raised stone on the footpath. Presumably it had been left behind by a workman.  But surely the tunnels predated Hergest Ridge by more than a century, at least?  

Raising my lantern I saw oak barrels of madeira and port lining the walls and crates of tinned meats gleaming enticingly.  Far below at the other end of the tunnel, the sea crashed against the cliffs.

Somehow, the ghostly darkness and gloom and the relentless crashing of the sea against the rocks and the general awfulness reminded me horribly of the unmitigated Hell that I expect awaits us in the latter half of 2023.

But I couldn't afford to dwell on that.   I had a tartan shopping trolley that needed filling.

'Broadsword to Father Macree.  Come in Father Macree.  Hurry!' panicked Geoffrey, who was keeping 'shottie' at the tunnel entrance.  His voice crackled again from the walkie talkie. 'The Moon's rising.  Over.'

I packed a few tins of korn bif into the wheeled shopper.  What else could I grab?  I was hoping to see crisps or other types of salty snack.  After all, it wasn't as if...

FOODBANK,  HEREABOUTS

'What the...?'   I removed my spectacles so that I could read the label without the blur.  

FOODBANK, HEREABOUTS.  It was written in block capitals in red felt tip on a white self-adhesive square.  Every barrel of port and madeira and every tin of meat had one.  I could scarcely believe my eyes. 

'Tuppy - I mean, Father Macree!  This is Broadsword.  The Moon's UP and I mean RIGHT UP.   We have to go.'

'Yes, yes, just a minute Broadsword...'  I seized a large oilcloth package that smelled strongly of tobacco.  Surely that wasn't destined for the foodbank. 'Over and out...'

Later, back at the Outcrop, we examine the contents of the oilcloth package, and find ourselves caught rather uncomfortably on the horns of a moral dilemma vis a vis nicking stuff from the foodbank.