NOW that we have reached the end of the shooting season, every duck, pheasant, goose and partridge in the area has come out of hiding to flout its presence under the very noses of their former hunters. No longer potential stars of a lunchtime menu, tasty supper or game pie, and with the unseasonable warmth of the weather, their thoughts have turned to lurve, whilst mine has turned to cooking the shooting season's last glut of game birds.

Unfortunately their road sense is not brilliant, and so an unseasonal last brace of pheasants hangs reproachfully in the meal shed, waiting for that final trip to the roasting pan. Victims of a Shogun and not a shotgun. Up until the arrival of my new cooker, though, the choice of being roasted in either my Rayburn or antiquated old electric oven, meant the bird was incinerated or defrosted, rather than roasted. Now, when I turn the dial to a temperature, the oven (or preen preen, ovens) actually gets to that temperature and stays there. It's a modern miracle which most of the country has probably been taking for granted for the last 20 years.

With the danger of sounding hopelessly domesticated (which I'm not), I have to write that I am quite besotted with my new cooker. The novelty of food actually being cooked in the time it is meant to take has denied me a whole section of my household vocabulary. That part of it devoted to swearing and cursing.

Despite the new cooker's cast-iron solidity and strength, elements of it are fragile. For example, in the countdown to twelve o'clock lunch, I have been used to banging down roasting tins, pans and saucepans on the Rayburn's lids or old cooker top without fear of damage. Only a few such tricks on this cooker's lids, however, and myriad scratches shine back reproachfully amidst the shining steel.

To guard against further harm to the relatively pristine appearance of the lids, daughter Bryony has ordered me a set of mats that will perch on top of the lids and guard them from damage. That is until I recycle the mats to act as oven gloves. Bryony has anticipated that trick of her mother's, however, of utilizing any tea towel, handkerchief, scarf or tablecloth in the vicinity of an oven to act as an insulating resource when taking out a hot dish. As witness to these acts of foolishness, I bear a ring of burns around my wrist which rival the lurid designs of any tattoo parlour. It is the equivalent of the Triad's secret signature. Spot those burns on someone's wrist and you know what kind of cooker they have. Unforgiving cast iron.

So to ward off any inappropriate use of the new mats, Bryony has also bought me some deluxe oven gloves. She's building up a good stock of bribes, I note. These gloves are extra long in the wrist and very protective against the odd thermonuclear attack on the cook's flesh. Their other feature is a magnet. They stick to the side of the cooker when not in use, what a good idea.

"Aren't you worried," a friend asked when I told her about the gloves, "that you might get stuck to the cooker when you're wearing them? Could be dangerous. Magnetic attraction and all that."

This made me think further about my new gloves. Until then, I had thought that, with their practicality, they must only have been designed by a woman, but my friend's concern raised a far more sinister aspect to the magnets and the possibility of no escape from the vicinity of the cooker.

"After all," my friend added, "you know why they say women's feet are smaller than men's. It's so they can fit under the kitchen sink."

I don't think so.

Updated: 10:28 Wednesday, February 25, 2004