Here I am, sitting in the morning sun in a rented apartment in Methven, New Zealand. I am surrounded by the left-over bric a brac of someone who has a property to rent and is not bothered if the equipment is suitable. My table is overshadowed by a shiny vase with tall red plastic grass and orange plastic tulips. The table itself is an artwork of coffee cup rings and scratches. I am surrounded by wobbly drying racks and dodgy cutlery. The pictures are not offensive to look at, but are hung in odd positions and angles – never central or straight. Perhaps it is the zenith of creative Kiwi house dressing to hang two large prints on one side of the wall, and leave the other side completely bare? The cooking equipment is an eclectic collection of pans and spatulas and a small Pyrex jug. There is a large sign over the cooker informing residents that there is a sensitive fire alarm. This is manifested in red plastic shades on red light bulbs placed at handy intervals and intended for maximum terror. If you cause the fire siren to sound and the fire service swoops down to your door there is a hefty charge to pay. I am not planning to do much cooking. Hubby has done the only sensible things: he has bought a slow cooker and eats out whenever possible.

So how did a Suffolk gal arrive at this small sunny pockmarked table in Oceania?

In a tin of sardines, otherwise called an Airbus.