Can’t Cook, Full Stop.

A recent survey by Halifax proclaimed the death of the great British Dining Room:

Everyone, it seems, is into kitchens now – especially kitchens that open out onto gardens. Such things sell houses.

I’m clearly way behind on this. Last Christmas, one of my best friends bought me a chalkboard emblazoned with the legend “I only have a kitchen because it comes with the house”, a gift no doubt inspired by an incident that had taken place a few months earlier.

Brought on by my constant wailing about being utterly useless on all things culinary-related, the same friend – a natural in the kitchen herself - offered to do a step-by-step guide to cooking a Sunday roast whereby she’d instruct and I’d create.

It wasn’t the most promising start. “Do you have a roasting pan or would you like me to bring mine?” she’d phoned up to enquire. “What’s a roasting pan?” I squawked, panic-stricken and confused.

An hour later she arrived with the appropriate roasting apparatus, as well as half the kitchen utensils known to womankind, and a chicken. I’d forgotten that part, too.

Under her patient tutelage and cooking-by-numbers approach, I managed the entire process without too much difficulty, although I must admit, I didn’t particularly enjoy inserting half a lemon in the poultry’s posterior.

But, shaky beginnings and a lack of suitable ovenware aside, my inaugural attempt at cooking a roast was deemed a success and, even better, no one died or was rushed to casualty soon after.

Sadly, I can’t say that I’ve followed up on my triumph and attempted a solo effort as yet - but my dining room is staying firmly intact just in case.