Today is sun and rain. But it is warm, and it is expected to be a warm October.

I have a lot of cooking to do today. Not my favourite activity. I am no Nigella.  I am certainly not a Domestic Goddess.

Hugo became firm friends with Nigella’s son, Bruno, when he was at Sussex House, over a decade ago now.

I once asked him what Nigella had cooked for dinner. He said that she didn’t cook all the time, as that was her profession.

Once, when I went to collect him from tea, I walked into the hall to see a weird looking woman with a baby in a pram down the corridor. I said hello, but she rudely ignored me. I said in the car to Hugo, “Gosh, that woman in the corridor with the baby was rude. She didn’t answer when I said hello.” Hugo replied, with some degree of exasperation, “Mum that is a wax work.” I was amazed.

Another time I went on a Sunday morning to collect him from a sleepover. I rang the doorbell. Charles Saatchi answered the intercom. For some unaccountable reason I said it was Sandra, but I said my name with an Aussie hard ‘a’, and not a soft ‘a’. He buzzed me in, just as I heard him yell, “Hugo your nanny is here to collect you.”

Hugo did not appear. He was obviously sound asleep. What could I do? I couldn’t very well go upstairs and look for him. So I sat down on the bench in the hall. This time, I was sitting next to a wax older gentleman. He was so life like it was unnerving. He had crepey skin on his arms and neck. He was hunched over, holding a paper bag. He looked exhausted. I marvelled at his realism.

After 45 minutes, I saw Hugo run across the landing to the loo (toilet) presumably. I yelled out, “Hugo, please come right now.” It was my only chance to retrieve him, and I was not going to squander it.

When Hugo was turning 13, I asked where he would like to go for his birthday. Without batting an eyelid, he said, “China Tang at the Dorchester.” He’d been there with them. And other good restaurants. He ate a lot of good food in their company.

When Bruno came to stay with us, I once asked him what he’d like for breakfast. He asked for pancakes with blueberries. I actually make a pretty good pancake. I was taught by my grandmother, Vera, my mother’s mother. I could woof down at least ten of hers as a child. No wonder I was a pudgy teenager.

As he ate away, contentedly, Bruno asked, “I am a bit confused. Are you Hugo’s mother or the nanny.” He obviously had met a few Aussie nannies. I wasn’t cross. I just laughed.

Bruno loved to talk about the sea and surf. He wanted to be a surfer. He often talked about Italy, where they holidayed, as Nigella is partly Italian. (Geoff was delighted to be standing behind Antonio Carluccio, another Italian chef on television, in Waitrose recently.)

I was happy to talk to Bruno about one of my favourite subjects, the sea, and I knew a lot of surfers growing up. He was enthralled as I told him about my brother Shaun’s fearless pursuit of the perfect wave, often at the expense of his face. He once came home having split his forehead on a reef. He still has a small scar between his eyes.

So, I better put a shopping list together soon.