Me, myself and Thai: my cooking lesson from Cher Thai Eatery

Lockdown is hurting everyone except the chickens. I have bought them a conservatory because Philippa, a Light Sussex, looks like ancient pants in rain. It is really plastic sheeting to hang under the henhouse; they need it because the rain is horizontal. They stare out like chickens from film noir.

I have exhausted local take-aways, and you cannot get fresh hampers here. Someone sent me stock cubes for beef stroganoff in the post, which feels joyless, but everyone is selling condiments — you can lick them, call it lickdown — or chocolates or alcohol, as if for a loveless Valentine’s Day.

What do I seek? Thai food. I spent my theoretical house deposit in the Little Thai in Hampstead; it is literally part of my body; no cuisine, for me, is as fragrant and as nourishing. The nearest good Thai restaurant is in St Ives, which is too far to drive at night.