Turn up the dial, bump it up a notch, make it hot, that gorgeous blue gas. Let them dance erratically on a cushion of searing oil, those demon capers and pompous anchovies, salty dogs, mischievous sprites.

Onion and garlic and dirty green chillies from Kenya, delicately sliced from top to tail, but don’t extract the pith, the purest capsicum. All into the blend, the providence and success at my fingertips, as it simmers in a skillet from Christmas past.

Plum tomatoes from Frank’s, flavoured with the finest spice from The Trader’s Bell in Whitechapel, chopped olives and a throw of parsley to taste.

my time in Naples,
thinking of Layla again,
too many red wines.