I have been up on the train to the middle of England this week, to a good pub in Shropshire that I really want to tell you about. I’ve also found a new Guizhou/Sichuan place in Bloomsbury that is fully Chinese in its clientele, unknown in the domestic press and finally sets the record straight on kung pao chicken in Britain after 60 years of hurt. And I’ve fallen in love with a small restaurant inside a fishmonger in north London that is as pure and crystalline a distillation of the words “perfect local restaurant” as anywhere I’ve seen.

And I will come to all of them soon. But, unfortunately, I have just been swept off my feet by a standout, hands down, pants off,