I am no longer the coolly self-possessed mistress of my kitchen. The ants I tried to befriend at Christmas have become zealots. I practice my domestic sciences in an atmosphere of fear and ambuscades. A bagel crumb left languishing beside the toaster becomes besieged within hours. With military precision, the ants blockade the west bank of my benchtop. Each day they emerge from a different crack. Despite my obsessive cleaning, I am under renewed siege.

At 6am, newly awake, I steel myself for what awaits me in the kitchen. I pad noiselessly across the cork floor and cast a bleary eye towards the sink. No ants. A small thud of relief. I reach for a teabag from Mr Twining. The red box remains pleasingly inviolate. I wait for the kettle to regain consciousness while I split a Hot Cross Bun and jam the halves into the toaster. I reach for the butter cloche and lift the lid.