I have a food cupboard and a larder. They’re not the same thing. The food cupboard is where the stuff we’re using lives: pasta, rice, tins, sauces, Marmite.

The larder is where the food cupboard sends its surplus. It’s the reserve bank. The strategic stockpile.

Recently, I calculated that there’s over £600 worth of food in the larder. There’s probably another £800 in the freezer. I know this because we’re trying to rationalise expenditure.

And then there’s the overflow freezer. And, because even that became full, there was an overflow for the overflow. Things got so out of control that I’d in effect created a small frozen food logistics operation.

An overflow freezer breakdown acted like a circuit breaker. It was the only intervention strong enough to stop the buying pattern. Living within easy reach of numerous supermarkets and shops, one could argue that if you run out of tomatoes, just buy some.

If rice is required, there’s no requirement to radio the government. So why the hoarding? I blame the 1970s. I grew up in a generation where you bought things when they were available.

My parents had known shortages and rationing. The freezer was a miracle. My father was particularly fond of buying in bulk and freezing homegrown produce.

Being well stocked was prudent, he’d say. The 1970s are clearly making a comeback. Rising food prices, buying things when they’re available, filling the freezer.

In an echo of the Cold war-era, the government is now advising us to stockpile food, this time in order to prepare for extreme weather. So I’m not completely mad. I’m just ahead of the curve — although if we’re really going back to the 1970s, I draw the line at corned beef.

At least this time around, you’ll find avocados in the kitchen rather than the bathroom. I’ve clearly inherited the hoarding gene. The logic is simple: if something you use regularly is 20 per cent off, why not buy three? If you know you’ll use it, buying ahead can save money.

The problem is that somewhere between “buy three” and “I need an overflow freezer”, the economics become less compelling. I spend part of my working life discussing money, investments, opportunity cost and capital allocation. Yet I’ve apparently committed £1,400 of capital to food that may or may not get used.

That’s a decent weekend away. I’m not sure we are any better at it as a society. Covid may have awoken the squirrel in us all — but while having enough food to survive a siege seemed sensible, the country fixated on buying toilet rolls.

The trouble with special offers is obvious: the illusion that not buying something loses money. Six tins of chopped tomatoes at 79p instead of 99p. Yes.

You’ve just spent £4.74 to save £1.20. This isn’t financial planning. It’s shopping with a calculator-shaped blindfold.

I will, however, defend buying extra jars of Marmite. We use it. A lot.

Thankfully, it seemingly keeps forever — to run out would be irresponsible. But again, once you’ve established that owning three jars of Marmite is sensible, it’s remarkably easy to justify three of everything else. Aside from the purely financial, there’s another perfectly good defence of a well-stocked larder.

It gives you choice. If I need something, I don’t want the hassle of going to the supermarket and making rushed dinner decisions. I’d rather inspect the larder and see what happens.

I’m not a shopping list sort of person. The supermarket says: decide what you are cooking, then buy the ingredients. The larder says: see what you’ve got and work it out.

I prefer the latter. It’s also brilliant for an impromptu party. Ten guests? Fine.

Twelve? We’ll manage. Fourteen? Let me look in the freezer. But it’s the freezer where the consequences really become apparent.

We have a chest freezer. It’s like an archaeological dig th...