I’ve got a certificate to prove it. Mind you, everyone got a certificate.

I am, to all intents and purposes, a qualified Intensive 5 Day Pressure Cook.

And if Delia Smith’s latest cookery book can hit sky-soaring heights; I’ll have a bestseller out for Christmas.

I spent the last week, learning to cook, with nine other participants at the Ashburton School of Cookery, based in Devon. All I can say is that I have met three chefs who abound in patience and good humour.

My problem lies with the fact that I cannot resist the temptation to wander off, into other unknown pastures, to talk to other beings, who happen to be sautéing potatoes, or stop and stare at the cows mooing outside whilst the soufflé burns softly in the oven or indeed, allow the gas to intoxicate the kitchen. (These are merely examples of kitchen activities and were not actively witnessed by others in the kitchen. I just happen to enjoy multi-tasking whilst wearing a white apron.)

Cooking. I do like it. But, having lived off a jacket potato for a year, in a state, famed for this staple fodder, I have been thinking that the time had come to extend my culinary skills for both my own sake and for the well-being of others. In life, if you want to have friends, it’s a good objective not to poison them, with or without the use of herbicide.

So, I went to Devon. Monday morning brought forth introductions and explorations as to why individuals were attending the course. I had thought long and hard about this; I have a 4 star Michelin reputation at stake. I said, with complete and utter sincerity, ‘I run a kebab van in Salisbury’. This, I hasten to add, is a little lie but I have always respected white kebab vans. Plus, jacket potatoes, from them (as well as Idaho) are unbelievably tasty. I have to add that one of my L.A (please see the first article I wrote) is to eat a kebab at 2.00am on a Saturday morning. This mission is taking some difficulty in achieving).

Having established our identities as Masterchef contenders, we moved swiftly into the kitchen, which was to house our souls, minds and bodies for the next five days, not to forget our chopping skills.

These, admittedly, had a variety of aims, not least in the vegetable department but also in the poultry arena. I have never felt so murderous in nearly 33 years of living. I murdered a chicken. Now, others on the course would be quick to deny this fact but taking a huge knife in one’s hand, and thwacking the living daylights out of some poor, pink object constitutes to me an illegal act. We didn’t, as a group, herd up a bevy of chickens from the streets, ready for immediate slaughter but nonetheless, dislocated joints, thighs and breasts was a pretty gruesome ordeal.

Poor chickens, that’s all I can say. I completely empathize with any vegetarians in the world.

Making pastry is a very interesting task. Or activity. Actually, everything we did, from our ‘mis-en-place’ constituted as an ‘activity’. We were given preparatory lists the night before we embarked upon our culinary adventure. ‘No pressure’, of course, when faced with fifteen or sixteen ‘activities’ for the following day. However, it is important to realize that the school is not a boot camp. Actually, this is far from the truth, especially when all one’s ingredients are prepared beforehand as well as washing up done by an angelic human being. (This has caused a huge shock to the system, on returning to Reality).

Where was I? Making pastry. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it has similar colourings to pasta. And on told to retrieve the chef’s unnamed pasta, I got the former. They both begin with ‘p’. I learnt quickly that in order to cover up mistakes in the kitchen, you’ve got to develop a good ‘faking’ attitude. Always pretend to know what you are doing ……… even if you don’t.

And this last morsel of advice leads me onto presentation. This is a Big Deal. I didn’t realize how cutting up carrots and swede into cubes could influence the whole plateful of nutritious pleasures. (Take note, McDonalds). Similarly, balancing haddock and poached eggs on a bed of steamed spinach, underneath a swirl of béchamel sauce can really obtain magnificent glory. I am determind to carry out this procedure, whether it’s cheese on toast or coq au vin.

And all this means that I am going to have to hold a dinner party. Yes, without blue string in the soup or providing marmalade as a main course. I won’t even be ringing for take-away pizza. I am not going to allow my guests to even eat beforehand. Please let me know if you are willing to be a very nice guinea pig.

If Delia can do it, so can I.