When I arrive at the comedian Omid Djalili's house in nicely tree-lined East Sheen, south- west London, it's his wife, Annabel, who answers the door. Omid's just popped out for milk, she says. He'll only be a tick. They've just returned from a few days in Devon with the children – they have three; the oldest is 15 – and the fridge is empty. Come in, come in. Cup of tea? She puts the kettle on. We chat for a bit. She is lovely; very pretty and smiley. Then Omid returns. "Hello, Omid," I say. "Milk?" asks Annabel hopefully. Omid opens his plastic carrier. There is apple juice. There is a newspaper. There is no milk. "I forgot," he says. "Oh, Omid," we both say in the way women do when they wish to capture centuries of female disappointment. Omid looks sheepish and smiles that smile, the one that says: "Please don't hit me, clever ladies who would get milk if they were sent out for it."