The Great British Sunday Roast

Today has been so dreary, damp and dull; I haven't left home at all and the car has remained in the garage.

Instead, we pulled out all the stops (possibly the fourth Lord Dunleath's favourite catchphrase!) and indulged in a roast dinner: free range British chicken breasts from the Province; roast Maris Piper potatoes from Ulster too; pork, sage & onion sausagemeat stuffing; and pork cocktail sausage & bacon rolls. The sole non-British vegetables were sugarsnap peas from Egypt.

I whacked the lot in the oven, the potatoes half an hour before the rest. The peas were simmered on the hob. Everything was drizzled with a concoction of sunflower oil, honey and soy sauce.

So, please take note Sir Stuart, that everything except the peas was British, unlike Marks & Spencer which once proudly proclaimed on its carrier bags that over eighty per cent of its goods were British. Presumably St Michael can ill-afford to buy British these days: it's cheaper to pay the overseas sweatshops. Before you tell me I'm being unfair, Sir Stuart, I allude to your general merchandise and not just food.

I hail our great Triumvirate of Food Warriors: Gordon, Hugh and Jamie, who are promoting the best interests of free-range chicken. Battery chicken farming is inhumane. I will try to buy free-range chicken from now on, where possible. If I order a meal in a takeaway or other restaurant, I will try to avoid chicken unless it is free-range. If I cook an Indian curry at home, I'll use prawns instead if necessary. It is impossible to avoid eating battery chicken completely without being obsessive, but I'll try because I think the Triumvirate's campaign is right.