’I think, Mrs Beeton could not have been more formidable’

Home, 5pm – and we have just finished renovating my studio’s modest kitchen. 

I’m pleased with the results but fear the revamp may have been badly-timed; in half an hour, I must drive to the airport and bring home my oldest friend Vanessa, a woman whose last name might as well be “Garnish-Roux” and into whose body Mrs Beeton’s spirit entered after she died in 1865.

(Or how else does she know what to do with a ridged butter-paddle? Or what ‘chiffonade’ means? And why else would she enjoy make demi-glace from scratch?)