Oh, I don’t know. Who cares? I don’t even like him, anyway.

Having been so cultured all morning, I deserve a bit of a treat in the afternoon, so I buy myself Vogue and a bag of Minstrels, and lie on the sofa for a bit. God, I’ve missed little treats like this. I haven’t read a magazine for . . . well, it must be a week, except Suze’s copy of Cosmo yesterday. And I can’t remember the last time I tasted chocolate.

I can’t spend too long enjoying myself, though, because I’ve got to go out and buy the stuff for our homemade curry. So after I’ve read my horoscope, I close Vogue and get out my new Indian recipe book. I’m quite excited, actually. I’ve never made curry before.

I’ve gone off the tiger prawn recipe because it turns out tiger prawns are very expensive. So what I’m going to make instead is chicken and mushroom Balti. It all looks very cheap and easy, and I just need to write out my shopping list.

When I’ve finished I’m a bit taken aback. The list is quite a lot longer than I’d thought it would be. I hadn’t realized you needed so many spices just to make one curry. I’ve just looked in the kitchen, and we don’t have a Balti pan, or a grinder for grinding spices, or a blender for making the aromatic paste. Or a wooden spoon or any scales that work.

Still, never mind. What I’ll do is quickly go to Peter Jones and buy all the equipment we need for the kitchen, and then I’ll get the food and come back and start cooking. The thing to remember is, we only have to buy all this stuff once—and then we’re fully equipped to make delicious curries every night. I’ll just have to think of it as an investment.

By the time Suze arrives back from Camden Market that evening, I am dressed in my new stripy apron, grinding up roasted spices in our new grinder.

“Phew!” she says, coming into the kitchen. “What a stink!”

“It’s aromatic spices,” I say a bit crossly, and take a swig of wine. To be honest, this is all a bit more difficult than I’d thought. I’m trying to make something called Balti masala mix, which we will be able to keep in a jar and use for months, but all the spices seem to be disappearing into the grinder and refusing to come back out. Where are they going?

“I’m absolutely starving,” says Suze, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Will it be ready soon?”

“I don’t know,” I say, peering into the grinder. “If I can just get these bloody spices out . . .”

“Oh well,” says Suze. “I might just make some toast.” She pops a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and then starts picking up all my little bags and pots of spices and looking at them.

“What’s allspice?” she says, holding up a pot curiously. “Is it all the spices, mixed together?”