What’s the little luxury you couldn’t live without?
Journalist and veteran presenter of Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour.
IT BEGAN with my grandmother, Edna Jones, who would take me to Barnsley’s market every Saturday afternoon. We’d trail around the stalls buying fruit and veg, enjoying a joke with the stallholders, who’d tease her about her talent for driving a hard bargain.
Last stop was the fish stall, where the fishmonger would holler: ‘here’s your crab, Mrs Jones.’ It would be wrapped in damp newspaper to keep it cool, and I’d be salivating at the thought of the delicious treat as we hurried to the bus.
It was Grandpa’s job to ‘dress’ the crab, although that simply meant splitting open the body, removing the ‘dead man’s fingers’ — the inedible bit — and cracking open the legs with a hammer. The whole lot went on the table with fresh homemade bread, butter from the farm and salad from Grandpa’s garden.
We’d scrape out the soft brown meat from the middle and spread it on the bread, then poke the legs and claws with a darning needle to remove the white meat. Grandpa called it ‘working for your food’. We loved it.
Now crab is the one item on my shopping list I can’t do without, in part because it evokes such wonderful memories. And over the years, a shellfish stall has been my first port of call at seaside resorts the world over.
The best crab is found in Filey or Scarborough. And t he shellfish restaurants in Lisbon, Portugal are a joy: you choose your crab, then it’s cooked, cooled and, on a bare wooden table, you hammer away to retrieve the meat.
I tried, throughout their childhoods, to persuade my two boys to ‘just try some crab’. ‘Yuk!’ they’d say. ‘No way!’
Then one day, in his late teens, Ed, the eldest, did and said, ‘ Yum!’. Number two, Charlie, soon followed. Which is a shame, really, because now it’s a battle to get my share.
DAISY GOODWIN: A POSH CUPPA
TV producer and author.
FOR the past five months I have been living in a rented flat (our house burnt down in January), so I have become acutely aware of the things that I need to make life bearable.
The luxury I cannot do without is a perfect cup of tea. That is, loose leaf tea made in a teapot and drunk out of a china tea cup.
Every two weeks I make the pilgrimage to that temple of tea, Fortnum & Mason, where a man in a frock coat will pour my fix of Irish Breakfast, Smoky Earl Grey and Russian Caravan out of ornate tea canisters into their green and gold bags.
At home, I decant the tea into one of my five different tea caddies and then set about my personal tea ceremony. I used to make my tea in one of those big brown china teapots, with an internal strainer so that I could take the leaves out when the tea had brewed to the right strength, but last Christmas my husband gave me a Sage tea maker, which is the Lamborghini of teapots.
You can adjust the settings depending on whether you like your tea weak and ladylike or strong enough to stand a spoon up in. Best of all, you can set it to be ready in the morning.
My family tease me about my obsession with this gadget, calling it the world’s poshest Teasmade, but all I know is that I find it a lot easier to crawl out of bed knowing that a perfectly brewed cup of tea is waiting for me.
It’s an expensive habit: Fortnum’s tea costs about three times as much as a bog standard teabag, and the Sage costs about £100. But, to me, a great cup of tea is worth every penny. And I think the point of little luxuries is to have one thing where you indulge yourself. It’s like giving your life an upgrade to the posh seats.
ESTHER RANTZEN: PRESSED SHEETS
Journalist and campaigner.
ThE luxury I cling to, and would hate to give up, is ironed sheets. Not that I iron them myself — that wouldn’t be a luxury, it would be a chore. I send them to the laundry, which is an indulgence I cannot live without.
Looking back to my passionate past, I remember a time when my sheets would be a crumpled heap by the end of the night. I suppose then the smoothness of the sheets was far less important to me than the charm of the companion who shared them with me.
Not any more. Now I am on my own, my bed is a serene haven for sleep and listening to Radio 4.
I have created a routine that gives me a treat to look forward to every week. I bought myself top- quality Egyptian cotton sheets, and I change them once a week, on Friday mornings.
Throughout Friday, I look forward to the moment when I climb into bed and stretch out across the smooth silky plateau. I savour the sensation, then turn contentedly onto my side and drift off.
This weekend, I am staying with a girlfriend who rang and said: ‘I’m going to make the sacrifice which proves our friendship. I’m going to press your sheets.’ I know she hates ironing, so could hardly believe her kindness. Now I’m going to have to think of a way to repay her. I know she loves champagne, but even a magnum won’t make up for the hours she will spend over an ironing board just to indulge me.
WENDY LEIGH: SCENTED MEMORIES
Best-selling novelist.
MY GREATEST luxury in life, which I indulge in whenever I’m feeling low, is a trip down memory lane courtesy of the fragrances that evoke precious memories.
I turn the lights down low, put on some classical music, then I run a Badedas bubble bath. The horse chestnut scent catapults me straight back to my childhood and memories of my dear father, who loved Badedas.
Once dried and dressed, I move onto the sensual, sophisticated and sexy memories of more recent years, by spraying myself with my favourite perfume, X.
One of t he world’s most expensive fragrances, X by Clive Christian, is exotic and alluring, a heady mix of some of the world’s most powerful aphrodisiacs. At £200 for 50ml, I treat myself only before a hot date, or when I want to reminisce — when memories of happy times with lovers, past and present, shimmer before me.