I’M STOOD in the middle of a rustic, old, Italian kitchen, feeling like a total failure. Mara – a nonna who is teaching me how to cook Italian food – is shaking her head and wafting my disc of freshly-made pasta at me, tutting and muttering in her native language.

She doesn’t speak a word of English, but Beatrice, who is translating for me, reveals I’ve used too much flour. My pasta is too hard and no longer any use for ravioli – it is only good enough for tagliatelle. The shame is real. Thankfully, slurping some delicious red wine and licking the spoon from the-best-tiramisu-I-have-ever-tasted-in-my-life soon takes the edge off.