I herded my class of blue-uniformed 15 year-olds into a queue outside the remote former school house. The retired head mistress emerged to invite them in, and they settled into their places for an authentic school dinner of past times. One of my colleagues shamed us all by asking our hostess whether there might be a “wee drink” before the meal. “Of course” the school mistress replied sarcastically. “You can take the tube directly home from here afterwards as well.”

Meanwhile I had to deal with the baby. After one week of motherhood I wasn’t coping well. Today I had forgotten to dress her, and had made no arrangements for feeding while the children enjoyed their school dinner. I asked the school mistress what I could give the baby to eat. Perhaps there was a shop nearby where I could buy a jar of baby food? It turned out that there was no need for me to hunt for a shop. Instead I could use supplies from this very kitchen. I soon learnt that new-born babies simply adore lemon curd spread thickly over slices of French baguette.