We just had the best pizza in the world. It was the same old dough recipe. Just flour water, yeast and salt, made up into a dough and refrigerated for twenty four hours. The tomato sauce had no frills, tomato and garlic. Mozarella on top, plus a little left over goat’s cheese. And an unlikely topping. I bought a scoop of what looked like artichoke, capers and olives at the market, but it turned out to also contain tuna. On it went. And into our old electric oven, whose latch is broken. The door is now wedged shut with a piece of tongue and groove wood from the incomplete flooring at the bottom of the stairs in our rented one bedroom house. Fifteen minutes later it came out. A few grinds of pepper, sliced and put on two plates. I’ve had pizzas in London, New York, Chicago, Florence, Berlin and Cork. I know there are fancier pizzas. Some have finer toppings. Some, though not many, have a better base. Some restaurants have fine surroundings. But this humble home-made pizza, eaten on our laps while watching the end of the first test, was the best ever.

I call it the Paul Collingwood, after the best cricketer ever.