Last night Nigella did something I’ve always wanted to do. She went to work in her nightie.
There she was. The Domestic Goddess, all her make-up on, hair flopping about, in a sea-foam green peignoir making corn cakes or something on a griddle.
My silky wrap would have been flapping open at the front, splodged with oil, batter coated cuffs sizzling on the griddle along with the pancakes. She remained softly spoken and immaculate. Immaculate in that trademark wanton way she’s cultivated.
I think it’s the hair dangling everywhere. Or that strangely always full pantry and freezer. Or the fact she’s got 50 milliongazillion quid and I haven’t.
Don’t tell anyone that I was being so uncharitable at Christmas….