Having not cooked for the last couple of weeks I was very tempted by a recipe that I found a couple of weeks ago for chicken baked with oranges, cinnamon and Moroccan spices. Sounded lovely, smelled deeply fragrant and exotic. Ade was sniffing the air like an elongated Bisto kid when he got home.

Als, sweet chicken and roasted oranges are not that tasty – I wish I had stuffed plain, delicious roasted chicken breast into a soft, white roll with a smear of mayo and eaten it outside in the last of the sun, then polished off the oranges with the juice stickily running down to my elbows.

I hate it when a recipe disappoints, especially when the individual ingredients are so plainly perfect.