Dear Celebrity Masterchef,
I thought I could do it. I thought I could go cold turkey, perhaps even use the time I used to spend with you doing something more productive. Perhaps take up the hem on the trousers I bought over a month ago, maybe finish the book I have been reading for the last two. Of course, I’d forgotten how seductive you are, with your cooking-with-medical-urgency theme tune, your big-swell music when you announce the finalists, your increasingly tenuous celebrity contestants (who I usually love by the end) and your shouty presenters that cry when they hit on a culinary revelation.