I miss Ainsley Denzil Dubriel Harriott.

You know that familiar spiritual lacuna in the day - the one between writing another hellfire condemnation of the Church of Rome and all its whore-ish works and cross-examining the younger Taylor children about their knowledge of the minor prophets?

Well, probably like you dear reader, I used to occupy that troubling time by watching Ready Steady Cook.

Mr Harriott was an energetic and encouraging host, enthusiastically conveying his and others' knowledge of all matters food-related that was neither based on getting totally smashed in the process (Keith Floyd) or virtue-signalling his own moral greatness (Rick Stein).

My favourite part of that now dear departed show was the really hard-scrabble element where guest chefs were given a random selection of items and the requirement to rustle up something coherent and edible using all the proffered ingredients.

The good news is that fans of Ainsley, if I may be so familiar your OBE-ship, now have the chance to participate in this harum-scarum competition every single day of the week.

The current shortages and intermittent supply of everyday staples in both the Coop and Moronson's means that the Taylor family cannot be the only one having fun to the ultimate max in making sense of a recipe that combines French mustard, anchovies, vegan burgers, cranberry sauce, turnips and tinned prunes.

Prayer has never been so important as at a time like this, I can tell you.

A few words to the Almighty and most specifically to his Son have been on many people's lips over the last day or so.

The reaction of some folks to the news that one or two petrol stations were running a little short of the black gold has prompted them to tip the whole economy into crisis as they bulk bought petrol for their ghastly misshapen 4x4s and via their collections of antique jerrycans for their wives and mistresses as well from the look of it.

The queues to the Londis garage all along Lady Lane and almost to Angel Street over the last few days seem to been jammed with the compensatory cars of the town's wealthy and wannabe-wealthy as they put themselves before the needs of key workers.

Southwold before stroke victims! Newmarket before nurses! Me, me, me, me before morality.

(Talking of gammon, I'd suggest the good denizens of Hadleigh should start mugging up on Christmas recipes for this solid, if not stolid, meat as supplies of the usual turkeys, duck, antelope and alpaca may well not be available).

Mind you, the owners of Londis have not helped the situation. Rather than sensibly taking a collectivist decision to limit every purchase to £30 or so, they've greedily been raking in everything they can take by allow the free-for-all that favours the rich and the rapacious.

On the other hand, the queues have been so slow-moving that they've resulted in cars being stuck for over an hour on the same spot, hence allowing Generalissimo Ward, el caudillo of Babergh and crusader against free car parking, and his epauletted colonels to stick penalty notices on dozens of loitering sedans.

During the 2000 hauliers strike, Generalissimo's predecessor despatched various local government falangist types to assertively direct motorists to their pumps whilst instructing them that there was a limit to the amount of fuel they could have.

I wonder if Generalissimo is preparing for a similar coup? As the Great Harriot would say: "heh, heh, boi".