It was late. Taylor Russell and Timothée Chalamet had spent a couple of hours devouring the flesh of human beings. Bones and All is a shockingly beautiful movie, and the end credits were rolling when Charlie bizarrely announced that he was hungry.

This might explain why he had been in a mardy mood. He once asked me in his cute French accent, “What is this mardy?” “Mardy bum,” I had replied. He raised an eyebrow like he always does when he is puzzled and disappeared into the kitchen to make something to eat.

He rattled about. The fridge door opened and closed and minutes later came the sound of sizzling. He was frying pork sausages, his favourite, something he consumed on an almost daily basis, which was infuriating because he never seemed to add an ounce of fat to that slender body.

I knew what lay ahead. The bloody plight that Chalamet and co had left behind was nothing compared to the chaos that Charlie would create. It might only have been sausages, but he would leave a dozen dirty utensils, a burnt frying pan, a filthy hob, and crumbs all over the worktop and floor.

I crept to the door to confirm my fears.

Charlie could turn a sausage sandwich into a work of art, one that requires skill and concentration, and a vast amount of mess.

He carefully sliced the bread roll in two, and then scored four golden sausages and cautiously stacked them onto the bottom half. Next, he sprinkled cheese, added mayo, hot pepper sauce, and tomato ketchup. He placed the other half of bread on top and delicately patted it, inspecting the finished article from every angle.

He passed me on his way back to the sofa, where he tucked his legs underneath him, and demolished this awful concoction. “Parfait,” he muttered.

Not once has Charlie asked if I wanted the same, neither does he consider where the sausages come from. That charming naivety suggests he believes that sausages magically reappear in the refrigerator.

I left him, sauce dribbling down his chin, while I cleaned the kitchen.