I’m not much of a one for going out, and my perfect Saturday looks, I think, like this: an afternoon pottering in the kitchen, and an evening curled up on the sofa, with the sharp smell of autumn drifting up from the dark street through the open window, the sweet smell of squash rising from a sturdy clay bowl, and a battered copy of something tried and tested and true, Treasure Island, say, or Jane Eyre.
