Seduction by Foodyism Gets Out Of Hand, Plus The Dangers Of Leaning On Revolving Objects.

God, M&S have got a lot to answer for. And I've gone right off food.

It all starts when Max has to leave early for work this morning, and tells me he hasn't had time to make any sandwiches.

"That's okay," I say. "You can buy yours, and I'll make my own. I can easily slap a bit of *Dairylea between two slices of bread."

Max looks appalled by my lack of epicurean standards - yet again - but doesn't actually say anything in response. He just pats me several times on the shoulder. Rather too hard, as if I was a particularly blokey mate of his but, by the time I've thought of a suitably ironic comment, he's already left the house.

Honestly, romance is fast becoming something I can only recall in dreams. And then it's always Max who takes the role of Romeo. Johnny never shows up while I'm asleep and, even when I'm awake, I do wish he wouldn't insist on saying, "Keep up, woman" during virtual sex. It's hardly up there with *Shakespeare's Sonnets, is it?

It's time to do something about the emotional desert I'm bogged down in. (And yes, I do know that's an oxymoron. Apart from the first three letters, the word pretty much sums up how I feel, after what happens next.)

I decide that Max and I need to spend more quality time together - away from Josh and, most particularly, Dad - so I walk down to his shop to find out if he's free for lunch. I don't phone first, as it'll be a nice surprise. And there you have my first mistake.

There's no sign of Max on the ground floor, so I tiptoe up the stairs leading to the first, where his desk is situated in a far corner of the shop. I've forgotten to bring my distance glasses with me, so I can't quite see what's going on, but he appears to be busy with a customer. Maybe he's actually going to make a sale, and there'll be some commission at the end of the month!

It's best not to interrupt him when he's working, though - so I wander around a display of furniture at the other side of the room until I figure enough time to sell anything has elapsed. Then I start to walk towards his desk.

Oh, shit, shit, shit. That wasn't a customer. It was Bambi. Or is Bambi, to be more accurate - sitting perched on Max's desk and talking nineteen to the dozen. I'd love to know what she's talking about. Max looks positively rapt.

There's so much stock in the shop, that there's probably enough cover to allow me to make it almost as far as Max's desk without being spotted, if I'm very careful. I zig-zag my way across the floor, bending double while out in the open, and pausing behind various sofas and sideboards to recce the situation along the way.

Thank goodness for all the stalking practice I've had during Greg's DIY CRB Checks, that's all I can say. At least I do a better job than Special Forces did in Libya. William Hague will probably phone me next time he needs a hand.

I'm really close to my target by now, but I still can't hear what Bambi's saying. I can see the way she's crossing and uncrossing her legs all too well, though - and that annoying Princess Di thing of giving coy little glances from under her fringe.

There's nothing for it but to try to reach the rotating display stand directly opposite Max's desk. It's a good job I'm small enough to hide behind it, though I'm a bit worried about the CCTV camera overhead. Oh, well - needs must. And I'm used to denying the screamingly obvious, if it comes to that. I do work for an MP, after all.

My sang-froid seems to be wearing off a bit by the time I'm finally in position, though, and my heart's making such a racket that all I can hear is a worryingly-fast boom-boom noise, interspersed with that sounds like, "brownie" and "roast."

So I wait for my pulse to slow down, while my legs start to shake a bit as a result of standing stock-still. My ears are probably shaking too, from the effort of straining so hard to hear.

"And look at this, Max," says Bambi. "It's so-o-o good, you are going to want more."

What is the woman talking about? And what exactly is she offering Max? I try my best to work out what's going on, but this damned stand is so tall that I can't see over it, and I can't see through it, either. Not unless I can swivel it around a bit - about a quarter of a turn. It should only take a little push.

Oops. Oo-ops. Oh, bugger it.

"Molly," says Max. "What the hell are you doing down there?"

He helps me up, gathers the brochures that have fallen off the still-spinning stand, and then turns to Bambi, who is staring at me as if I am quite mad. Some people have no sense of when to leave the scene of an accident.

"Here you are, Max," she says, passing him a brown paper bag. "As I was trying to tell you - it's an organic Scotch Egg. With pepper, chilli and paprika. You could even say that it's orgasmic - so I know that you'll enjoy it."

Is that a wink, or do annoying women just have a tendency to twitch while using foodstuffs as tools for seduction? Dervla Bloody Kirwan has no idea what she started.



*Dairylea - viscous yellow cheesy spread, perfect for really lazy people like me, and for whom food is merely fuel.
*Shakespeare's Sonnets - rather better than the stuff Greg and I were forced to listen to at last week's poetry reading. And sadly absent from my daily life.

Foodie Heaven. Or Hell, Depending On Your Perspective.

God, dinner party conversation has died a death since the advent of foodie-ism. In fact, you can't get away from it at any bloody meal, or at least, not at any meal held at Max's parents' house. Today we go there for lunch and I almost die of boredom. Really. I am not exaggerating, not one single bit. The entire conversation was about food.

Obviously, it isn't about just any old food. No, there is no mention of Hovis or tinned salmon, or Flora margarine. But previously staple foods that are now produced or grown by specialists? They're deemed worthy of a whole lecture series. On and on, and on and bloody on. It puts me right off my food, actually.

No sooner do I raise a forkful to my mouth, then I get its entire history, blood lines, provenance, whatever. What soil it was grown in, or what food it was fed, and whether there were bags of lavender hanging where it was stored, for twenty years before it was deemed ready to hit my (unappreciative smoker's) palate. I am in an agony of boredom within fifteen minutes but it just goes on, relentless.

Max seems unaffected, which is worrying in itself. This must surely be worse than it used to be when he was still living at his parents' house, so he ought to be finding it as irritating as I am. Foodie-ism didn't really exist in those days, after all. I think he must have switched on the part of his brain that allows him to tune out the kids when they argue - but, anyway, he just keeps eating and doesn't say anything.

I'm not allowed to get away with that, though. Instead, I have to go through my entire repertoire of constituent-humouring noises, and throw in a load of "surprised and appreciative" eyebrow raises for good measure. And even then I don't think I make the grade. I don't suppose I ever will, unless I can gain about ten stone, and bone up on the niceties of elderflower cordial production and the optimum time to hang game.

Josh just shovels down some food, then excuses himself, saying that he has indigestion and needs to go to the loo. He doesn't come back until the meal is finally over. I reckon he was playing games on his iPhone - which normally I would consider likely to cause brain rot, but in this instance, was probably an effective precaution against it.

When the time comes for coffee, I am so relieved. Once we've established the exact grade of roast, the fineness of the grind, and the country of origin, my agony should finally be over. Shouldn't it? But no. Max's Dad gets out a magazine, and says to Max,

"Look what I came across the other day!"

Max looks distinctly unimpressed, but his dad goes on.

"Isn't that great? And what a marvellous photo, too. Show Molly!"

"Oh, I don't think so, Dad," says Max, squirming.

"She'd love to see it. Go on, show her!"

Max passes me the magazine, open at the article in question. I sit and stare at it. I have absolutely no idea why I am looking at it, or what I am supposed to say. Now everyone's looking at me, Max cringingly, and the others with anticipation. Even Josh looks curious. Bloody hell, there's nothing for it, but to tell the truth.

"Um, sorry - what exactly am I looking at?" I say. "All I can see is an article about chilli-growing and a photograph of a smiling fat girl."

Max laughs out loud, and his parents look horrified.

"But that is Lizzie," says Max's dad.

"Lizzie Who?" I say. (This is getting tedious.)

"Max's ex-girlfriend, Lizzie,"   says Max's Mum. As if that was both obvious and reasonable.

"What, from before Mum and Dad were married?" says Josh. "Why on earth would you want Mum to look at that?"

Sometimes, I just adore my son. As much as I don't adore talking about, growing or indeed, cooking food. And it is very nice to see how shit Lizzie looks, too. I don't recommend an over-reliance on chillies if you want to keep your looks, that's for sure.