Two Domestic Goddesses, separated by a few minor details

Nigella Lawson and I are practically identical.

Twins, in fact, separated at birth by a particularly wicked fairy godmother.

Admittedly, there are one or two minor differences.

Nigella, for instance, actually cooks things that look every bit as delicious as her enthusiastic moaning suggests they taste.

She is also dark, sultry and impossibly glamorous, whereas I am pale, mousey-haired and rather more likely to be mistaken for someone who has come to read the electricity meter.

Then there is the small matter of age.

Nigella is more than ten years older than I am, yet somehow manages to look ten years younger.

I find this deeply offensive.

But apart from these trifling discrepancies, we are practically indistinguishable.

Let us examine the evidence.

The moaning

Have you noticed how Nigella positively purrs over her cooking?

Every spoonful, every lick of cake batter, every delicious little morsel is greeted with noises normally associated with activities that have absolutely nothing to do with preparing supper.

Personally, I have my suspicions.

How do we know she is actually moaning over the food?

For all we know, there is a tiny gentleman concealed beneath the kitchen counter, administering a particularly delightful foot massage while the cameras concentrate on Nigella licking chocolate from her fingertips.

Have you noticed how rarely we see anything below her waist?

Exactly.

The youthful appearance

As previously mentioned, Nigella has committed the unforgivable sin of being older than I am while looking considerably younger.

Naturally, I have considered every possible explanation.

Good genes. Excellent lighting. Expensive face creams. A personal pact with the Devil.

Or perhaps a little help from the cosmetic industry?

I have absolutely no evidence of the latter, but that has never prevented a thoroughly jealous woman from entertaining the possibility.

If I had Nigella’s money, I would probably investigate Botox myself.

Although knowing my luck, I would emerge from the clinic unable to raise an eyebrow, which would deprive me of approximately half my conversational repertoire.

The figure

And here, at last, we discover something we genuinely have in common.

We are both blessed with generously proportioned posteriors.

Hippopotamus-sized, if one is feeling particularly uncharitable.

Which I frequently am.

And yet, remarkably, we both have husbands who appear perfectly satisfied with the arrangement.

So perhaps there is hope for us mere mortals after all.

Perhaps beauty is not entirely dependent upon youth, flawless complexions, slender hips or the ability to make eating chocolate cake look like an erotic experience.

Perhaps our husbands simply have excellent taste.

Or perhaps they know better than to complain.

Either way, I have reached a comforting conclusion.

Nigella and I really are rather alike.

Except, of course, that she is a Domestic Goddess.

And I am a Domestic Daemon.

But we both have magnificent bottoms.