Could I win over the MasterChef judges with a hearty soup?

may have a problem with soup. So, as it happens, does my wife. Regrettably, they are very different problems. Hers primarily concerns soups at the thicker end of the scale; the kind that Cow & Gate might put in a jar for a six-month-old baby. And it is marked by an automatic retching response which is disheartening for the soup’s creator.

My problem is very much the opposite one: I’m obsessed with the stuff. Usually, the Gores are united in all things; simpatico perfecto. Only on soup – and cricket – do we diverge. Yet who would deny that these are vital matters in any marriage?

I’ve always had a penchant for a bowl of broth. Whenever I was ill as a child, I would be fed chicken soup and Lucozade. And in winters, my mother seemed to knock up a pan of steaming potage for lunch on a Saturday almost without fail, usually from no more than a handful of lentils, a carrot, an onion and a stock cube.