Zoë Foster Blake is showing me around her kitchen, an eclectically designed, stylishly mismatched, almost deliriously colourful space. Coffee and pastries are laid out, sparkling water in a jug. Fresh flowers are arranged in vases, coffee table books piled artfully. “I cleaned up for you,” she says.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, but Foster Blake demurs. “Yes, I did! My husband got home from travelling last night and there was shit everywhere,” she says. “I cleaned.”