In recent weeks, people have been pointing at me and laughing. They mutter to each other: "Look, there is that woman Millard, with the newspaper and magazine columns, and those remarkable legs. And all those fridges - how decadent! To have so many fridges – one in a foreign country, no less – and yet to be so greatly lacking in food!"

I fail to see what they find so amusing. What kind of human being could wish starvation upon another? Fortunately, we at chez Millard have not reached those circumstances yet. No, I prefer to think of the condition we inhabit as being a social strata undiscovered by the popular press: the "malnourished professional".

Malnourished, because the hectic schedules of such professionals leave barely time enough to dash across the road to Pret a Manger, let alone to cook duck a l'orange for six and reheat a can of Milupa for Little Lucien. Malnourished, but, thanks to flexible credit and 0% interest, never undersupplied.

The Millard Refrigerators are, in their own way, brimming with plenty. I must admit that the refrigerateur in our Paris apartment has little in it other than a slightly fetid piece of Camembert and some decaying liver pate. Oh, and of course, an emergency jar of Cow & Gate should, heaven forbid, we be passing by and Little Lucien is hungry.

The other fridges in our portfolio fair a little better. In our rental properties, there are a few Whirlpool fridge-freezers. They did not break the bank – what does, really? – thanks to the Comet store card, and they are entirely appropriate to our target market.

We currently let them to some twenty-somethings, fresh out of postgraduate courses, with over-generous overdrafts. I keep telling them that once they have climbed the career ladder a little further and started acquiring their own properties that they will realise that their so-called "crippling student debt" is nothing more than a light stitch, but they just mention ISAs and saving for deposits, and honestly, it is as if they were talking a foreign language.

I have no idea what they keep inside their fridge. Probably beer and pizza, and perhaps an emergency jar of Cow & Gate that got left behind. Do you keep pizza in a fridge? Don't ask me; I've always found pizza purchased in the UK (apart from those in some of the better restaurants the capital has to offer) a little ersatz.

There are technically two fridges in the kitchen at Millard Towers. Pip and myself share a large, stainless steel SMEG, and the children have a smaller BEKO to themselves. I can hear the chattering classes now recoiling at the concept of my children having their own refrigerator.

But it makes perfect sense. For a start, giving them a smaller fridge means that they can reach it themselves; irresponsible, you may say, but would you leave your children to starve on the one night a year that the after-school club was cancelled and the nanny was struck down by gastric flu again? I think not.

Little Lucien also benefits greatly from a fridge of his own. After all, nothing is more disconcerting than opening your own fridge to be greeted by bottle after bottle of your own decanted breast milk. The second fridge was, until recently, kept well stocked with milk, for those rare occasions when I would not be home at a civilised hour.

There is also, I must admit, an element of snobbishness in giving the children their own fridge. I mean, what self-respecting adult would want to contaminate their own fridge with Yogz, Cheezstrings and all manner of radioactive kiddie-food?

Exactly.

The SMEG is a pure temple, full of Marks and Spencers’ ready meals (a lifesaver for the Malnourished Professional after a busy day at the office; Pip swears by them), many bottles of San Pellegrino water (and a few of a particularly crisp Chardonnay we picked up last time we were in Paris), and about eight half-full bags of salad. Some would say that we need to co-ordinate our purchasing of food a little better, but really, what are one or two bags of salad in the composter between friends?

There's also about twelve of those tiny bottles of Actimel in the fridge door. I'm still not entirely convinced by this stuff, but several of my girlfriends swear by it, and it's having a noticeable effect on my demeanour - not to mention my colon - each morning.

There's little else of note, which means it's almost certainly time to get another delivery from Waitrose online. Again, store cards work their magic, ensuring that the Impoverished Professional never needs to become too much of a Malnourished Professional.

The icebox - I forgot the icebox! In the top of the fridge is an icebox, which contains an awful lot of ice, and a couple of bottles of Stolichnaya vodka. And, it would seem, a gold American Express card.

Pip had assured me he'd cut it up, but it seems to be residing, intact, in my freezer. Hah! I'm putting the shopping on hold, and am off to book myself a haircut - it's been five weeks and the situation is desperate.

Now: where did Pip hide my bloody mobile?