One of the many advatages of being friends with Michael is you never know when you might receive an email explaining that a fox had got at his chickens and there was one going spare if I fancied having a go at plucking and then eviscerating it.

The email was answered for me in the affirmative. So when I got home late Thursday night after an evening spent drinking beer and listening to Plan B (The Oxton Music Group – a bit like a book club, but for men of a certain age some of whom have got beards and all of whom like drinking beer) I peered down into the cellar to find it hanging by its feet and a piece of string – head missing.

I put the thought of it out of mind all Friday until I got home from work and put myself to the task at hand. Michael suggested a dipping into a large pan of just off boiling water before setting out on the plucking. I though I would have more books on the subject but even Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall was more coy than I expected on what to do. I was able to find some step by step photographs on the internet and they confirmed the bath in hot water which helps melt the fat under the surface of the fowls skin and so loosens the feathers.

So a large vat of water was slowly brought to the boil. I left it for a while and then took it down into the cellar to make a start. I lifted the bird off its hook and dunked it into the pot. The pot was only just big enough and I had to push in the legs so they were covered. There were a few alarming bubbles which I ignored. I counted to 60 and lifted it out  allowing the water to drain off. I placed it into a large cardboard box and got onto my knees to statrt on the plucking.

In the past I have plucked pheasant and pigeon and my abiding memory is the mess of feathers and the difficulty in avoiding torn skin. For this the dip in hot water worked well and most of the feathers were easy to pull out. The main problem being their sticking to my damp fingers and having to shake them. The feathers round the wing tips and legs were more difficult and I cheated and simply cut those off.

Fifteen minutes later I was left with the naked bird and aware that I was going to have to start on the  evisceration. Following Michael’s instructions I took a sharp knife and cut round its vent slowly making the hole bigger. I then gritted my teeth and started to work my fingers inside the gut. Luckily there were no eggs as  I found out the true meaning of the word furtle fingers pulling out gobs of yellow fat and the pink and slime of its guts. The smell of the farmyard rose up from the cardboard box and upstairs in the kitchen the cats’ noses twitched.

Once I had it all out I sluiced the bird down in a jet of cold water. It then went into the same pot but with clean water which I brought up to the boil and then left to simmer until I went to bed. Before going to bed I took the pot down to the cellar again to cool down overnight. The water will make a good stock and I will finish cooking the bird with some onions and a bottle of red wine for Sunday lunch.

For our evening meal on Wednesday we eventually made it to Morito on Exmouth Market. Although the hotel room was small there was a temptation to put our feet up, buy in sandwiches from the very smart Planet Organic shop round the corner and leave it at that. But I was determined not to miss out on the opportunities to be had on a night out in London.

So we strode out towards Clerkenwell maps in hand to be consulted at every major junction in case we had lost our bearings. The walk was slightly longer than the original 10 minutes or so estimated by me but before too long we got to Exmouth Market and after a couple of minutes working out our west from east found ourselves outside Morito.

It looked busy and full and pushing open the door we were instantly met by a severe lady in black who told us we could go into the queue and there would be a 45 minute wait. That did not seem too bad and I passed on my number and we went off to find amusement. That was not too difficult and took the form of the pub round the corner. Despite it being November we sat outside and a pint was drunk until bang on the 45 minutes the shrill sound of the phone went off and we were in.

We were sat round a corner of the orange bar and were presented with typed menus on half pieces of paper.

I have spent a large part of the last 10 years or so cooking food of one sort or other out of the various Moro cook books and it was difficult to resist the temptation to just go for everything there was so I could taste in all.

With a deep breath I managed to restrain myself and we restricted ourselves to three dishes each.

Kristen had pedron peppers, patatas bravas and jamon and chicken croquetas. The pedron peppers were the best ever, the potatas bravas not quite as good as mine. The croquetas were delicious – crisp and hot to the fingers with a deep mellow soft unctuous filling.

I had spiced lamb, aubergine, yogurt & pine nuts, salt cod croquetas and quail a la plancha, sweet onion, olorosso & onion. It was all dirty fingerly good white paper napkins on the floor. So good I then had to have a glass of pasion de bobal and a plate of lamb chops with cumin & paprika watched on by Kristen wanting to go to bed.

Breakfast the next morning in the basement of The Arran Hotel was a desultory affair – I had poured a half cup of coffee because that was all there was and moved from my seat for a minute to find the cup gone because someone had thought it finished. This was a good incentive to get out and so we went to the Bronze exhibition in The Royal Acadamy. Amazing to see these vast shards of metal 2,500 years old bent into shapes like you and me.

After our hour of culture it was back into the tube for the afternoon visit to Central St Martins. But we got there early and wandered for a while along the strips of new land carved out for the development at the back of King’s Cross. There was a small area given over to street food and I had my breakfast – a beef enchilada chilli juice running down my fingers.

In Central St Martins the overwhelming thought was the sheer number of Apple macs of one sort or other on desks, tables and chairs providing the focus for almost everything that went on there. Although hugely impressive with its facilities it lacked some of the scuzz of Goldsmiths.

Later that afternoon we took the tube back to Leicester Square where they were setting up for the premier of another film after the last of the Twilight series the night before. Rounding  corner we came across the St John Hotel and I spent a few minutes trying to persuade Kristen that we could sully some of their bright white napkins by having them giving us tea.

She was not persuaded and took us via a map on her iphone through Chinatown to the nearest Byron’s in Soho where we both had a chicken burger and very crisp, salty fries.

Back at Euston with 45 minutes to spare I remembered being told about a good pub that had somehow squeezed itself into one of the old gatehouses outside on the front of the station. We found it and after ordering a bottle of coke for Kristen had a couple of pints of a New Zealand pale ale that managed to combine all the right elements of bitter and sweet.

One of the small joys of a trip down to London on the early morning train out of  Lime Street is falling asleep again in the dark of Runcorn and then dimly waking up as the train speeds through the rolling low country south of Tamworth, the sun rising over the hills out of the right hand window bright and clear, mist down in the dips and marks of the old land. Half the train is asleep or staring at a laptop screen, not noticing the awakening country speeding by.

We were down in London to visit colleges with Kristen and arrived  at Euston at 8.30. Time for a large coffee to wake up before entering the tube to make our way to South east london and Goldsmiths. we got there early had time for another cup of coffee in a slightly scuzzy cafe which had a drop down screen and projector for intimate film showings and a note on a blackboard that advertised knitting evenings on a Wednesday.

We then had two hours of talk and workshops on their design course. We were both taken postdisciplinary design. Apparently amongst other things this could involve the law – I was not a prospective student so did not think it my place to ask.

Lunch was in a student cafe directly opposite the main entrance – chicken wings and chips with a Peroni before another two hours of fine art and a walk around the studios and workshops.

I was only observer but I did catch myself wondering how I had managed to spend three years at university doing law when there was so much other stuff out there. That of course begs the question as to what else I could do – I am not sure there are degree courses in listening to dodgy music whilst wielding a sharp knife in the kitchen.

We are now back in the hotel. The room is coal bunker sized and with the window shut to block out the noise of the traffic from the street below it has the potential of the black hole of Calcutta. No matter there is a shop round the corner selling bottles of good beer and I have worked out how to use the strap on my camera case to remove the bottle caps. We are off for tapas and sherry.

Normally when I go to the Farmer’s Market in New Ferry on the second Saturday of the month the chicken I buy from the stall on the right hand side as you go in is roasted for Sunday lunch along with dirty potatoes and carrots and a vegetarian alternative. You will have seen pictures.I have done something different today.

One of my favourite cookbooks is Middle Eastern Food by Arto der Haroutunian. He was born in Syria but ended up in Manchester  with a chain of six restaurants and two hotels. The book takes in all the cooking of the region including recipes from Armenia, Arabia, Israel  and Iraq. I picked it up in Blackwells in Oxford and have never seen another copy.

As you might expect there are three methods set out for the cooking of rice including a detailed run through of the 14 steps an Iranian housewife must go through in order to make a proper bowl of chelo, crusty steamed rice.I will be following some of the steps this evening.

The chicken recipe is tashreeb dijaj whole chicken in a spicy sauce. Rub the chicken down with a quartered lime, then rub it down some more with a mixture of salt, pepper and tumeric. Your hands will be stained yellow. Heat butter in a large pan with a lid and brown the chicken. Addd a couple of chopped cloves of garlic, some split cardamon pods and two bay leaves. pour over a pint of water, bring to a simmer, put the lid on and let it cook on a low heat for an hour or so until done. For added sourness I threw in some dried limes I picked from the International Store.

Remove the chicken from the pan and keep warm, reduce the sauce, strain and pour over the chicken and serve with the rice.

For pudding we had the quince cooked in syrup with a whipped cream flavoured with calvados – deep dark and delicious.

Cora had made a cheesecake during the afternoon and the kids ate that.

We continued to listen to the Soul Jazz compilation of Southern Rock.