Erotic Fiction: The first five minutes of Nigella

This isn't really erotic fiction, it's a blow by blow account of Nigella Kitchen: Episode 2, Hurry up, I'm Hungry.

Two giant pink fists decorate a door; out of which Nigella's lustful face bursts. She walks towards the camera, giving walls flirting glances, and doors lingering touches, before leaning back over a sink, pushing her breasts towards the ceiling and pouting longingly. Cut to Nigella looking directly towards the camera. She talks about gratification, something about food. Cut to a brown fluid spurting onto a pile of meat from off camera. Potatoes; cake; cleavage; pizza. Prawns. Nigella carries a tray, Nigella says the word "lager-ita" whilst opening her eyes wide, like a drunk baby deer. The words "Hurry up I'm Hungry" decorate the screen, presumably made using 'WordArt'. Nigella is opening her blinds. Why are we in her bedroom first thing in the morning? Stock footage of transport and busy Londoners. Cut to Nigella standing next to a bright pink, plastic, curvaceous, enormous whisk. She uses words like "pudding" and "smugness" as though she can't quite fit her lips around the vowels, and quickly pours cream into her pink whisk. She shoves almost half a piece of marmalade-heavy toast into her mouth and continues talking into the camera with her mouth full of butter; desperately trying to distract the viewer from the fact that all the while, she was unwrapping pre-packaged cake and arranging it on a plate. She pours Cointreau into a marmalade jar and shakes it; cruelly shaking side to side, knowing only too well what a up-and-down cocktail shaking motion could do to the British public. She pours the thick, lumpy fluid onto her cake-plate. "Oh look at these gorgeous golden globules." The golden globules shine knowingly in the sunlight; oozing from their jar and sitting on the pale golden flesh of the cake, like spunk. Nigella flicks her shiny hair, Nigellas hand wraps around an orange, and she grates it painfully. "I want bold bright strips, not sad little tangly weeds." She looks into the camera, and some poor gentleman somewhere turns the television off sadly; a far off look of regret decorating his features. Now the juice. She squeezes the orange, letting go in a way that she never did with the jar, she pumps at those orange halves with an insouciant grace, but it's over quickly. Next, the cream: She doesn't like the cream whipped too stiffly, she tells us, a twinkle in her eye; before scooping the piles of sloppy, thick, wet udder juice on top of the mess she's made on her plate. The "desert" looks out of place on a plate; it would be more at home on a freshly bathed stomach. She punctuates this ridiculous confection with soft fruit; "bouncy and proud", juice, "seeping into the cream". She takes the pile of pleasure, locks it away in a cupboard, applies lipgloss to her suspiciously ample lips and leaves.