In a bid to force myself to update this blog more regularly I’ve decided to start a weekly* list.

Each week* I will list 5 things that may or may not have irritated me slightly in the past 7 days. 

It may be difficult to narrow it down to 5, but as an English person I can easily bottle up any excess rage and continue to simmer gently for the remainder of the week. Until someone nudges me gently by accident in Tesco. When I will explode. Not literally I hope. Tesco would sue. Unless I exploded near the pre-cooked chickens. In which case they would simply pass me off as ‘BBQ’ flavouring. (It’s the same colour. And texture).

Anyway, by means of an introduction here’s a guest post about lists from Twitter’s very own @GrazingBison: 

How to make a list of instructions:

Step 1: Pick a topic

Step 2: Write down the topic. An example I’m going to use will be ‘How to make a list of instructions’

Step 3: Write down ‘Step 1: Pick a topic’

Step 4: Write down ‘Step 2: Write down the topic. An example I’m going to use will be ‘How to make a list of instructions”

Step 5: Write down ‘Step 3: Write down ‘Step 1: Pick a topic”

And so on and so forth.

Guest Post Ends. I didn’t pay him.

Here’s this week’s List:

1. Cheese balls (American) – It’s like a cult. But rolled in walnuts.

2. Cheese balls (English) – Stinking orange powdery cheeseless finger tainting spheres of despair.

3.  All yoghurt adverts – Yes, even that new one.  They’re still just hawking overpriced gone-off milk.   

4. Fireworks that I can hear but not see – Bang! Where? Oh.

5. Making commitments. Especially ones that involve writing regular lists. Oh.

*Small print**: List may be fortnightly. Or monthly. It may even be a one-off. None of this is legally binding, I’ve checked.   

**Smaller print: I am not a qualified lawyer and therefore no comment of mine as to whether something is legally binding or not should be taken as legally binding. Or not.

I don’t eat breakfast. But I do listen to breakfast radio.

I like a bit of background noise in the morning. Unfortunately the noise that comes out of the radio rarely stays in the background, and as soon as it comes to into the foreground it makes me quite angry. I’m quite angry in the mornings anyway, so scientifically we can’t really blame radio for any of this.

There is a law about breakfast radio these days that the show must be composed of a quite shouty and not very funny man and a comedy sidekick or three. The comedy sidekick isn’t usually allowed to be funny, I think it’s ironic. The other members of the teams are just sycophants and are contractually obliged to laugh at everything that the not very funny alpha male in charge says. It’s very annoying to listen to.

This is not what I want to hear in the morning. I do not want to have unfunny jokes shouted at me by an unlikely gang. I like my breakfast radio presenters like I like my coffee. Extra strong, but with a lot of milk. And maybe some brown sugar. In other words Huey Morgan. Or Peter Serafinowicz in that episode of Black Books where he reads the Shipping Forecast. In an ideal world they would team up. 

Sometimes, very early in the morning, before the official breakfast show hour and while it is still dark, a woman is allowed on the radio. It used to be Sarah Kennedy. She talked about cats and read stories out of the Daily Telegraph. But she never, ever finished the stories. Ever. Just started them off and then got distracted. Maybe someone else wanted the newspaper, I don’t know. But it was very irritating.

So we are back to the unlikely gang. They are quite old for a gang. No one ever mentions that.

Sometimes a woman is allowed to be in the gang. But only in a minor role. Normally their job will be to do The Weather or The Travel. On the radio in the morning The Travel is very important. Which is fair enough. We all want to have fair warning of broken down trains and massive traffic jams. But on national radio this doesn’t really work. There are too many roads. It’s impossible to realistically cover them all. So what actually happens is that people who drive lorries and are quite bored and give themselves names like ‘Wayne’s Dad’ or ‘Crazy Ned’ or ‘The Big Burrito’ and think that they live in America even though they drive quite a small lorry which is absolutely not a truck and is probably full of cat food or something not that life-threateningly urgent – these people who are driving from Macclesfield to somewhere else like that and imagining that they are in the film Convoy or possibly The Dukes of Hazzard – these people who long for a CB radio just like in the films – these people phone up the radio station and tell the nice lady in great detail about a jack-knifed lorry on the M6 that they have seen.

While they are on the phone doing this and not looking where they are going there are probably other lorries jack-knifing all around them while they swerve all over the road. So it’s a self-perpetuating cycle. (I don’t actually know what jack-knifed means but I hear it on the radio a lot. So it must be bad).

One of my worst nightmares is that I may be involved in a very serious accident and while I am slumped across the central reservation of the A41 some bastard in a lorry will phone up Radio 2 and my death will be reduced to one of their traffic reports. If the person who phones up is a man from Surrey wearing a bandana who calls himself ‘Trailer Tex’ or similar I shall be very annoyed.

Women are also allowed on the radio in the morning to tell you about the weather. The trouble with being told about the weather on the radio is that they get about 5 seconds to tell you about the entire country. This is really not enough time to impart any useful information. And if there’s one topic that you want the instructions to be specific about, it is the weather. Otherwise why bother?

The other important part of breakfast radio is The News. It is illegal not to tell you the news on the radio at least once an hour. I’m not sure why, it’s not like that on the television. It might be in the mornings, I wouldn’t know. I don’t watch breakfast TV. I’d probably explode. Women are allowed to read the news on the radio provided that they have a husky voice or a silly name. Fenella Fudge. Brilliant.

For reasons of intolerance I generally listen to Radio 2 in the morning. I’ve always assumed it would be the least offensive. It’s got Chris Evans on it. I don’t hate him. I’m not really a fan. I’ve always been fairly neutral. But lately I’ve started to get tetchy.

The first straw was a fairly sycophantic interview with the billionaire owner of Specsavers. I didn’t find it that annoying to be honest, but it made my sister so angry that she rang up the BBC to complain. And then she rang me up to complain. And then my mother rang me up to complain about my sister. And it all went on for some time. And eventually I became annoyed by proxy. But I let it go.

And then one morning we had to listen to him going on about how difficult it was to mow his many acres of lawns. Fair enough, he has a big garden. Most of us don’t. It was a bit irritating, but I let it go.

Then there was a charity thing. OK it’s for charity. We must be nice. But it was basically a lot of people who could afford to give quite a lot of money and some people who worked for the radio station driving around in sports cars all day. We had to listen to the noise of the cars on the radio. And presumably imagine the rest. Now if you are a car fan that’s all very well. But I’ll go out on a limb here and say that the best medium for car enthusiasts might be the television. Where you can see them moving and stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I have no objections to fast Italians. Or Ferraris. But listening to the sound of a car going vrmmm, vrmmm, vrmmm does not good breakfast radio make. But I understood that it was for charity. And I let it go.

Recently there was a feature about shepherd’s pie. I have no idea why. In this feature a chef from London’s exclusive Ivy restaurant prepared three shepherds’ pies which were then eaten and enjoyed by Chris and the team. Now that’s good breakfast radio. Right there.

‘Mmm, this one tastes of mince. Mmm, so does this one. Mmm, some gravy’.

Two small points here. One, it’s breakfast time. No one wants shepherds’ pie for breakfast. Two, why in God’s name did anyone imagine that I might want to hear someone eating a shepherd’s pie on the radio? It’s not even a shepherd’s pie that I can go and buy if I want to join in with them, it’s from a very exclusive restaurant and I can’t have one. And three, (yes I know I said two but I’m ranting now), if I wanted to listen to someone eating food on the radio, at least make it something I can hear, something with a bit of crunch. Something noisy. Not mince and mashed potatoes.

I couldn’t let it go.

While I am still seething about shepherd’s pies Mr Evans goes on his holidays. And what do we get as a replacement? Richard Madeley. Now I have nothing personal against Mr Madeley. I’m not trying to be horrible. But he should not be allowed on the radio. He sounds too much like Alan Partridge, It’s not his fault. But he keeps telling us all the instructions. It’s insane. In 3 minutes we’ve got a weather update. In 8 minutes Fiona’s here. In 45 seconds I’m putting this pen in my ear. Why are you telling us this Richard? This is what’s supposed to happen in the background. Your job is to read out other stuff over the top and make it all look seamless.

One day I heard him say the word vasectomy. I switched off.

The next day he discussed gravy tips. Yes, tips for gravy. At 7am on a weekday.

Now I have nothing against the sharing of gravy tips for the Sunday roast on the radio if there’s really absolutely nothing else to talk about, but maybe you could share them on Sunday morning? When people might care about gravy a bit more? But please not during the week. Not before breakfast. Not after the shepherd’s pie incident.

And the instructions for the gravy tips were so complex. No emails, not recipes, just tips, just one line. So many instructions. I didn’t want to hear about gravy. I heard about gravy the week before. What is it with Radio 2 and gravy?

Bacon. Talk about bacon if you must. And coffee. Or tea. And weather. That’s all I want.

Please don’t tell me to grow up and listen to Radio 4. It’s boring.

Read this:

http://alicepyne.blogspot.com/2011/06/oh-dear.html

Look at price list of lovely relaxing spa place. Find it strangely tensing.

Recall your last two visits to lovely relaxing spa places:  

The first one was a work ‘reward’ and you spent an afternoon sitting around in a variety of ill-fitting dressing gowns with all of the women from the office, and one of the men who you all loved at the time because he wasn’t afraid to get in touch with his feminine side while the rest of the boys played golf.

Later you realised that he was actually taking photographs of the women in dressing gowns to show to the rest of the boys after the golf.  

It was not relaxing.

The second one was a lovely expensive treat to a famous country spa that unfortunately appeared to be decorated in the shades of peach and coral favoured by mid price hotels on motorway junctions in 1980.

You were given an ill-fitting dressing gown and a pair of size 9 slippers. They had no other sizes of slippers but 9. You sat at a coffee bar staffed by fully dressed South African teenagers with 25 other women all wearing ill-fitting dressing gowns and size 9 slippers.

It was like a mental hospital for clowns.

They offered you the use of a bicycle. You had thoughts of The Great Escape.

It was not relaxing.

Banish terrifying spa memories. Decide to do lovely relaxing home spa experience instead. 

Put on fanciest dressing gown. Gather toiletries. Collect best fluffy towels that you are saving up for a reason that has never really been successfully explained. Light expensive scented candle. Hit ‘play’ on the music machine.

And relax.  

For the first time ever, scented candle sets off the fire alarm. Put nearest trousers on under fanciest dressing gown. They are half of a pinstriped suit. Go out into communal hallway to switch off fire alarm.

Oh that’s nice. The neighbours are having people to visit. Say ‘hello’ to neighbours’ visitors.

Return to lovely relaxing home spa.

And relax.

Light candle again. It smells of warm tropical evenings on sandy beaches.

Music machine plays The Sea by Morcheeba.

Apply face pack.

And relax.   

Fire alarm goes off again.

Apply trousers. Go out into hallway again. Say ‘goodbye’ to neighbours’ visitors on their way out. Explain to a pizza delivery man that he needs a different doorbell. Eventually show all of them how the fire alarm works. This is quite difficult as face pack means that you cannot move your face. Nevertheless, successfully communicate by pointing and waving your arms about vigorously.

Oops. Adjust dressing gown.  

Return to lovely relaxing home spa.

And relax.

Music machine plays Motorhead, Killed By Death. Get up again, switch off shuffle mode.

Pour a nice glass of wine. And relax.

Fall asleep.

After some confusion wake up properly and realise that 5 minute face pack has now been on for over an hour and a half. Waste quite a lot more time worrying about whether to remove it at all in case it has done a Benjamin Button on you.

Try to remove with cotton wool ball. Try to remove with flannel. Eventually remove with fingernails.

Fire alarm goes off again. Notice that best fluffy towel has fallen on candle and is on fire. Put out fire. Allow neighbours and pizza delivery man to switch fire alarm off.

Pour another glass of wine.

Think hard about money saved on lovely relaxing spa break.

Relax.

Aunty’s been looking for a new job. So far I’ve learned that I’m a very underqualified Computational Linguistics thingy, and a very overqualified seagull.  

Here are some reasons why someone should give me a new job that wouldn’t fit on my C.V. :

1. I make fantastic coffee.

2. I make dreadful tea. But I’m open and upfront about it. People always assume that this is a ruse to get out of tea making. So they allow me to make tea. And then they never ask me again. 

3. I am spectacular at persuading other people to make tea. So the above is not a problem if you like tea.

4. I have my own pens and pencils. I will not embarrass any of us by transporting them to the workplace in a furry pencil case.

5. I also own a stapler and a hole punch. I did not steal them from an office. I hope never to be depressed enough to write my name on them in Tippex in case someone else wants to borrow them.

6. I do not own a photocopier. I am frightened of photocopiers. I will usually spend the first six months of any job finding ways to avoid doing any photocopying.

7. I am spectacular at persuading other people to do photocopying.

8. I have a digital camera which can be used for taking photographs of documents if it is not possible to photocopy them.

9. I will never abuse the photocopier at the Christmas party. If it abuses me I will not sue you.

10. If I have an accident or trip or fall anywhere at work, I will not sue you. Or I will at least offer to go halves with you. As long as you didn’t push me.   

11. I have a lovely telephone voice. I also have a normal voice, a sympathetic voice and a special quiet voice for gossiping in the kitchen.

12. I will usually tidy up when I am gossiping in the kitchen and I will never steal your teaspoons. I have too many teaspoons already. Interestingly, I have no coffee spoons.

13. I might bring in my own coffee mug, but I have too much pride to ever send a company-wide passive aggressive email about it if somebody accidentally borrows it.

14. I will never leave a yoghurt in the fridge with a stupid note on it.

15. I can do an eight hour strategy meeting without going cross eyed.

16. I will not tell you what I did at the weekend or bore you to death with photographs of it.

17. I don’t watch Big Brother, The Apprentice or X Factor, but I can hold a thirty minute conversation about any of them using information gleaned from that morning’s Metro newspaper if that’s what you like to talk about in your office.

18. Alternatively, I can keep a straight face when you talk about ‘plucking the low hanging fruit’.  

19. I will always share my biscuits.  

20. I will never have a small salad for lunch and then eat all of your biscuits.  

21. Until they invent a silent apple and low volume crisps it is unlikely that I will eat either of these things in your office.  

22. I have legible handwriting and can forge many different signatures on important contracts or birthday cards for unpopular members of staff.   

23. I understand the concept of ‘layering’ and will not come to work in a small vest and then complain that ‘it is freezing in here’ all day long, emailing HR if anybody opens a window. Nor will I come to work in thermal tights and a balaclava and then complain that ‘it is too hot in here’ all day long, emailing HR and also Facilities if anybody closes a window.

24. I will always turn it on and off again at least three times before I call the IT department.

25. I am not possessed. It’s just static electricity. 

In lieu of a new job, Aunty needs a rich husband. And preferably one who works away from home a lot. Unfortunately, I rarely bump into the über rich. They don’t seem to get on my train much.

Anyway. Having done some extensive research, (opened a newspaper), who do I spy but Prince Harry. I seem to remember reading somewhere that he has wealthy parents. And also his brother Prince William is getting married soon, so I imagine that sibling rivalry, and the opportunity for The Queen to double up on the bunting and stuff at the Royal Wedding, means that he’s probably quite keen to get married asap.  

I know from the newspapers where he is right now. He’s in Norway, on the way to the North Pole. This is handy because he cannot escape. Where will he run to? Even if he does run away. he’ll be easy to spot, even without the orange immersion suit. That red hair will stand out nicely against the white snow. If I was pursuing a silver fox like Phillip Schofield I might have a problem, but this will be a breeze.

The North Pole is a good place to make approaches to potential husbands. You don’t have to worry about what to wear. And big coats are flattering. You can blame any lumps and bumps on all the layers. Also there’s no need to shave your legs, as not only will they be well out of sight, but they’ll be nicely insulated.

Ok. So I know where he is. But how do I get to him? Well luckily (for me), this week I’ve been given permission to do an interview with this chap:

Yes I know he’s cute. But that’s not the point. His name is Jaco Van Gass, and he’s doing a trek to the North Pole for a charity called Walking with the Wounded. Yes, he and some other crazy people are walking to the North Pole. Two hundred and fifty miles. Across the Arctic. Pulling sledges that weigh over 100KG. While avoiding polar bears. Lunatics.  

I ran for a bus today in a slight drizzle and had to sit down for half an hour afterwards, so I can fully empathise.

But, as if walking across an icy arctic landscape thingy (a landscape that is capable of letting you walk for 10 miles in temperatures that could be as low as -50C, then relax and pitch a tent, and then while you are asleep maybe move itself along and let you wake up 11 miles further back from where you started!), isn’t difficult enough, these chaps are tackling it with various injuries sustained in the army.

Injuries that in Jaco’s case include the loss of an arm, and a bit of leg, after being hit by a rocket-propelled grenade.

I don’t know about you, but I’m probably going to complain slightly less about having to walk up two flights of stairs if the lift at work breaks down again this week.  

Anyway, getting back to the object of this exercise. As one of the interview questions I’m going to ask Jaco to ask Harry to marry me. I’m working on the theory that men can rarely say ‘no’ to other men.

 ‘Oh, I didn’t want to go to the pub for 12 hours. but all the others made me’.

That type of thing. It’s called peer pressure.

How can he refuse? Sorted.

Don’t get any ideas about marrying Harry – I need the money - but if you want to follow Jaco and the others on their trip, or preferably sponsor them, or even just look at pictures of chaps being quite rugged in the snow, you can do so here:

 http://walkingwiththewounded.org.uk/

Good for them.

It’s daytime. Put the television on. Watch a dolly lady cooking Italian food. Watch another dolly lady showing people around a lovely villa in Tuscany. Get inspired.

Prise self off sofa. Resolve to cook beautiful romantic Italian dinner.

Scour recipe books. Decide on wonderful rustic Tuscan peasant style dish. (Peasant style means cheap. Rustic means you can plonk it on the table in the cooking pot with some bread so less washing up. Perfect).

Fagioli all’Uccelletto con Salsiccia. Mmmm.

Search freezer for ingredients. You might need to improvise a bit. You don’t have any home-made rustic Tuscan-style sausages. Because you don’t live in Tuscany. Replace rustic Tuscan-style sausages with a packet of traditional English-style chipolatas. No one will notice, they’ll be hidden under some other stuff.

Search cupboards for further ingredients. You have passata. You have cannellini beans. You are domestic goddess. Assemble rustic Tuscan-style casserole. It tastes of tomatoes. This isn’t surprising, as it is made of 90% tomatoes. Continue to search cupboards for secret ingredients. You need sun-dried tomato puree. Have no sun-dried tomato puree.

Light bulb moment – use Heinz tomato ketchup.

Sorted.

Place fully assembled Italian masterpiece in oven for two hours.

Relax. You have two hours to kill.

Change into most flattering black dress. Five minutes.

Open a bottle of Italian wine. Five minutes.

Light candles. Five minutes.

Sweep hair into an effortless natural looking peasant style updo that looks like you have spent no time at all doing it. One and a half hours.

Bellissimo!

Mmmm. Something smells good. It’s not you. You smell of sausages.

Remove casserole dish from oven and take to table, rustic style. Present with a flourish! Worry for a moment whether ‘flourish’ is French or Italian. Decide that it doesn’t matter.

Try and make sexy ‘smouldering’ face while serving food. Unfortunately casserole dish is smouldering so just end up making ‘burning hands painful face’. Luckily it’s quite similar, (check out Katie Price for examples).

Despite the pain serve up beautiful home cooked romantic Italian dinner.

Realise that you have actually spent three hours cooking Heinz Beanz with Sausages.

Bags. You can’t avoid them. They are everywhere. And are involved in all aspects of your of life. From birth to death.

People put babies in a bag to go to sleep. Ahhh. Babies also come with ‘Changing Bags’. These are not as exciting as they sound. You always get the same baby back. Every time.

These babies grow up into children and they get a School Bag. This is just a device to weigh children down with a lot of heavy books and stop them from running away. It works very well.

Schoolchildren have other bags too, like Gym Bags. These are bags that they keep their gym kit in. On one day ever only, they are filled with clean, fresh, lemon scented sportswear. For the rest of eternity they are either lost or filled with an unrecognisable ball of grubby, sweaty fabric. This will continue throughout adulthood until the gym goer gives up and becomes morbidly obese and unable to work a bag zipper with their giant fingers, or manages to cancel their monthly gym membership, whichever is the soonest.

You can keep hands in Hand Bags, but it is frowned upon. Also shoulders.

When you go camping and it is not possible to bring your own bed with you, you can use a Sleeping Bag.

But beware – if you wake up in a bag and there isn’t a label on your big toe you still have to get up. If you don’t wake up and you are in a bag it is a probably a Body Bag.

(Laundry Bags are simply Body Bags without the bodies, just the clothes and the smell).  

When you are old and not in a Body Bag you may have a Bag On Wheels or a Colostomy Bag.

You will often see small dogs in bags. Never cats though. So when the disembodied robot lady voice at the self-service checkout in the supermarket says ‘unexpected item in the bagging area’, it’s a cat. So don’t let it out of the bag. And please don’t confuse these bags with Doggy Bags. Doggy Bags are full of leftover food. Hopefully not leftover dog. Unless you have been to a really cheap kebab shop.

There are also bags that are really just handbags that are called ‘Statement Bags’. The statement that you are making is, ‘I have a lot of spare cash’. Some of these handbags are indeed very lovely, but they can cost many hundreds of pounds.

When you’ve just watched a telethon that tells you that a cataract operation to restore sight to a blind child can cost less than £20, I think it seems rather excessive to spend £1,000 on a statement bag. 

I prefer to spend some money on these eye bags:  

http://www.rednoseday.com/change-lives/focus-on-sight

‘I’m not blind anymore’. What a nice statement.

Crispbread. It’s not bread. And even if it was, nobody wants crisp bread. That is toast. So what they’re selling you is effectively low-fat, cold toast. Mmm.

Crispbread. It’s just a great big cracker. A giant savoury biscuit. But without any salt. So what’s the point?

The good people at Ryvita did once put sugar on a crispbread which I quite liked. But mostly I liked it because it looked like a giant biscuit. Which I enjoyed because it made my hands look dainty. This new craze for miniature food is all very well. Yes it is fun to grasp a mini cheeseburger at a party and pretend to be a giant. But really, you’re a monster. It’s not attractive. Buy giant food. Look petite. Much better.

Once in France I went to a mussel restaurant, (not a muscle restaurant but just imagine that!). And all of the forks were tiny. Especially small to fit into the mussels. It was like using Prince’s cutlery. And because it was a celebration there were photographs and so in all of the photographs I was holding a teeny tiny fork and I looked like some sort of giant-handed monster. It was awful. Now am always photographed with giant crockery and cutlery wherever possible. Even at home I always drink my coffee out of an oversized cup because it makes my hands looks smaller. 

Anyway, crispbread. We’ve all seen that Ryvita advert. Where all the ladies in the office sit down for lunch together every day and discuss different things that they can do with their Ryvita. Like put some olives on it. Or maybe some cheese. Or dunk it into some soup. WHAT? Yes, you heard me; she likes to dunk it into her soup. This is because she is on a diet and cannot put bread into the soup or she will die of fat. ‘Mmm’. Says everyone. Soupy crispbread. Wonderful.

Those Ryvita ladies must have much better jobs than me. If the highlight of my day was dipping a savoury piece of cardboard into a bowl of low-fat tomato soup I would accidentally fall down the gap between the train and the platform on purpose on the way into work. I’m sorry, that was overdramatic. But please.

And also, that communal soup dunking they do is very unhygienic. 

Another thing. Why are there only women in this crispbread loving office? I work in an office. Men are allowed in too. We have a hellish place called a ‘break out’ room where we can go and eat our lunch and read Take A break magazine or watch Sky News. Or bitch about our colleagues. It’s a little bit like an asylum, but only for an hour a day.

We all go there to eat because we have to. Like a family. The women eat salad in the summer and soup in the winter. The men eat Chinese food and samosas and Subway barbecue baguettes all year round. None of them eat Ryvita. Even the ones who have a packed lunch. If their wife made the packed lunch it’s a salad. They’ll eat it and then have a Chinese takeaway. If their mum made it they’ll eat it and then not have a Chinese because they are afraid of her and should have moved out a long time ago.

One day they will move out and marry a girl who eats crispbread and makes them a packed lunch which they will throw away and eat a Chinese take away instead. Then they will go home and lie about it. This is called love. Until one of them gets fat. And the other one gets unhappy. Then they will both eat crispbread. 

Don’t get me started on rice cakes. They’re not even cakes.

• This Valentine’s Day, why not say it with flowers? (You need three flowers to say ‘it’).  

• Ladies! There’s foxy. And there’s tearing the heads off chickens with your teeth. Try not to confuse them on a date.

• Candles are very romantic. And if they go wrong you get firemen! Win win.

• Don’t forget to wax everything before that big date. Especially the floors. If he falls over and breaks his leg you get to keep him for ages.   

• If your eyes literally meet over dinner you need to get a bigger table.

• If your eyes literally meat over dinner you are cannibals and should try to dine at home where possible.

• Oysters are sexy. You prise them open violently with a knife. And eat them alive. Sometimes there is sand in them. I don’t know who said they were sexy. I’m just going along with it. I don’t even like them alright.    

• Surprise him and the waiter by bringing your own oyster knife to dinner. And maybe all your other kitchen knives. Get them out nice and early on in the evening. He certainly won’t leave while you have so much to look at and talk about.   

• Try asparagus – it’s very symbolic. It’s a green knobbly vegetable stick that makes your wee smell. And so it is a symbol of romance. Or it might be a symbol of gonorrhoea. I’m sorry, I get them mixed up. 

• Take-away pizza can be a romantic meal. If you can lure the delivery boy in and lock the door you can have a romantic meal for two. When he stops crying. 

• There’s a reason that the Flake is considered the sexiest chocolate bar. It’s much harder to eat a Kinder Egg seductively, and men will always become distracted by the plastic toy.

• (And remember that a Twirl is just a Flake for cowards. Or disciplinarians. If you like that sort of thing).

• It’s probably quite sexy to suck the meat off a chicken bone in front of your date. This doesn’t work with a turkey leg. Or a leg of lamb.

• It’s a short step from aromatherapy relaxing pillow spray to chloroform.