At my parents’ house, out in the countryside where the greenery far outweighs the dull grey of concrete, there’s an old pub bell, hung, unassuming, at the bottom of the stairs. The ringing of that old bell, followed by elephant-heavy but mouse-fast footsteps down the stairs, signals the time to down tools, sit down to be served up something delicious. And that’s exactly what I plan to do here.