I read Hemingway's posthumous Paris memoirs, rumoured to have been written by his wife (

You need one of those slave-driving old studio bosses if you ask me, not a sensitive graduate who went into movies because he liked the clouds in Antonioni and then turned himself into a nouvelle vague Deutscher all hot for Truthspiel.

Now, Stuart, as you will discover if you have not done so already, believes that the principal raison d'etre of food is to conceal from public view the hideous pattern on the plate beneath.

This is I have to admit, one murky compartment of the female psyche which has yet to benefit from the oven-scourer of Reason.