I'm a bit of a twat when it comes to cooking. I absolutely love it and rarely see it as a chore, even after a long day of relentless childcare. Sometimes I spend a Monday morning preparing the whole week's evening meals to store in the fridge. Most days I have cooked dinner by about 10am. Often in the afternoon I visit friends or have them at my house and don't want to have the question of 'what's for dinner?' hanging over me while I enjoy their company. As much of a twat that I am, however, there are days when the prospect of cajoling three littlies to consume the kind of meals which make Jamie Oliver all excited makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a rusty can-opener. On these days I take the children into the garden, hand them all a can of rice pudding and a teaspoon and sit back with a glass of white wine. Five minutes later they are all in the bath, tummies full of the kind of carbohydrates which aid lengthy sleep and the kitchen is in the kind of state which makes me smile.