Entirely my own fault. Of all the desserts I could have chosen to make for tomorrow, only for this one are strawberries a vital ingredient. If I wasn’t dopey, I would have hunted down acceptable strawbs before lashing out on all the other ingredients for the Malakoff, then I could have made an alternative. But no; the butter, ground almonds, gallons of cream and bottle of Grand Marnier were already bought and waiting to be assembled.

On principle I don’t buy anything Spanish, mainly because of that country’s abysmal treatment of animals great and small. And in particular I don’t buy Spanish strawberries. The World Wildlife Fund claims that their cultivation drains much-needed water from surrounding marshes and is having a devastating effect on the local environment. Production methods rely on vast amounts of harmful chemicals and polluting plastic materials. Employers are accused of exploiting and underpaying North African and Eastern European workers who are underpaid and living in shanty towns. And as if all that isn’t sufficient, the things don’t actually taste very good. They don’t look natural – they’re far too big, and the flat end is generally green and tough. So plenty of reasons not to buy them.

Unfortunately, today in town there were no alternatives available. Often we can buy Moroccan strawberries locally; but not today, when I most needed them. I spied some punnets of raspberries, which would have been the only possible substitute, but they too bore the dreaded mark of Zorro. I was forced to go against my principles. But it will certainly be the last time, and in the greater scheme of things I doubt one punnet will have too great a beneficial impact on the Spanish economy.