it tasted a bit like heaven. I ought to have mentioned that bit.

The thing about working in -- and to all intents and purposes, because for much of the day it's the only warm place in the house, living in -- an ancient kitchen, is that your mind runs along strange and unusual lines. It's a bit like being haunted (or possibly possessed) by generations of houseproud cooks.

In real life I don't do the washing-up five or six times a day. It wouldn't occur to me to do it more than once a day. Or possibly twice, if I needed a mug.

In real life I don't ever think "Hmm, those pears on the table smell slightly sweetish, as if they're just past their prime. I think I ought to slice them up and stew them slowly in a saucepan on the Aga stove with a cup of water, some lemon juice, honey, a splash of wine and a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar, then eat them with a glop of fresh cream." Honestly, I could go for years without having that sort of thought cross my mind. But when you're living in a kitchen it seems sort of natural.

Right. Bedtime.