There is no version of this article that doesn’t cast me a braggart. But I hope you’ll forgive me a spot of self-aggrandising when I tell you that I am not the hero of this story. My career exploded this year. Friday Night Live. The London Palladium. But it all started on 1 August at the Edinburgh festival fringe, with my solo standup show Jordan Gray: Is It a Bird? A life-changing five-star review from this paper on day two set everything in motion. From there, the hype train never slowed down. Another five-star review from the Independent, another from the Scotsman, another from the Telegraph … (I promise this string of boasts is pertinent to the story). It got to the point that a gorgeous four-star review from the Times felt like a kick in the broveries (lady testicles). As the days passed, trapped in one long “lightning bolt moment” that every comic dreams of, I became jaded by all the successes, in such quick succession. All the while, amid a steady stream of congratulatory flowers and cards, the venue staff’s WhatsApp group was abuzz with rumours of a “mystery package” left for a “Mrs Jordan Gray” at one of the festival hubs. It took us two days to track it down: two full carrier bags of plastic tubs, filled with mysterious blocks wrapped in brown paper. Here is where I introduce my wife, Heli. She is the one consistent joy in my life. She’s a croupier from the Czech Republic. Her mind is fascinating. Her heart is overflowing. And her baking is … hit and miss. Almost to a mathematical certainty. She holds a perfect a 50% batting average. A mouth-watering tart; a disappointing muffin. Some glorious shortbread; a sickening flan. A world-class bakewell; a Victoria sponge that tastes like a screaming match at a Citizens Advice bureau. After a long courtship online, Heli brought a splodge of grey matter to our first in-person date, which she mercifully identified as “strudel”. A grim affair, dusted with so much powdered cinnamon that I came up from my first bite looking like a yuletide Scarface. But a month later, she baked me a heavenly batch of lemon cookies that retroactively justified the evolution of the human tongue. Back to the mysterious bags. No note or card to identify the sender … but the human gastrointestinal system never forgets. Bag number one contained half a dozen tubs of the same grey strudel that Heli fed me on our first date. To my shame, I shared most of the strudel with the venue staff, a gaggle of malnourished teens who wouldn’t know the difference between strudel and strychnine, which is just as well. But, as per Heli’s record, bag number two was a bona fide hit. An entire Bábovka – a delicious chocolate-marbled Czech bundt cake, upon which I subsisted for the rest of the festival. And then, at the bottom of the second bag, there was a tiny surprise tub containing the homemade cookie you see in the picture. If I hadn’t already recognised the baking, I’d know that handwriting anywhere. My wife was “proud of me”. I instantly pictured Heli in our tiny kitchenette back home in Southend, lovingly hand-piping her pride on to that heart-shaped medallion, gingerly packing the tubs to ensure her message survived the journey hundreds of miles north. Dazzled into a dull apathy by my own success, this simple heartfelt gesture was enough to set me off sobbing. A token of love from the woman who moved across the country to marry me, only for me to take off around the country on tour. The hero who covered my half of the rent for years while I peddled my knob gags to the public for bucket-change. I will remember that biscuit for the rest of my life, because it restored my humility. It was by far the best “review” I received all month, and a part of Heli must have known I’d never bring myself to eat it. Which is maybe for the best. Because the law of averages says it probably tasted like shit. Jordan Gray is a comedian. Her show Jordan Gray: Is It a Bird? runs at the Soho Theatre in London from 13 to 23 December