It’s a fresh spring afternoon and I’m in the middle of a forest in Somerset. I’m carrying an axe which, I’m not going to lie, is exciting. I’ve come here from my home in London — two buses, two trains, then a drive, then a moderate hike — for one specific reason. I’m going to carve a spoon. Out of wood. From a branch of a tree that I will chop down myself. I’ve been thinking about this spoon all day and, as birds sing softly and a breeze passes through the woodland, I feel about as contented as I have done all year.

What am I doing here? I mean, obviously, as I say, I’m off to carve a spoon. But that’s not really