I was a big lad as friendly northern people who knew me described me, but looking back at early photos not as big as I thought I was. Less than friendly people called me entirely different names, which I laughed off but it hurt.

Settling in London after my college years, I persuaded myself that I should lose some weight. The incentive was a woman who bet me I couldn’t. ( Woman? Girl? Which is it, we were in our early 20s and ‘girl’ sounds too young and woman too old, she wasn’t a lady! ) She worked in the same ad agency as me, and I took up the bet and came up with the Pork Pie Diet. Basically, I only had a small pork pie and tomatoes for lunch, or an apple in place of the tomatoes for variety. Believe it or not, it worked. It was supplemented later by my jaw being wired after a rugby ‘accident’ when my jaw was broken in two places, and I discovered the joy of the liquidiser. For several weeks, I could eat nothing but liquidised food. I discovered that you can’t liquidise a pork pie, but you can a sausage. I lost pounds.

The removal of the pounds did me no favours with the woman in question. We got as close as a date where we were to meet under the clock at Waterloo Station, but she just didn’t turn up. When back at work on the Monday there was no mention of the failure, almost as if it hadn’t been arranged. She continued to be unimpressed. I moved on.

In the many years since my relationship with food has changed in some ways, again influenced by a woman. My other half and I eat what we think is a good diet. Pork pies do not come across the threshold despite my efforts to persuade her of their weight-loss properties. In fact, pastry-wrapped items in general get short shrift. Chocolate seems to have a right of passage as Management is keen an extols it’s virtues. Something to do with antioxidants. We try to grow some of our own veg, and I’ve even been persuaded to try tofu, which I still think is factory-made plastic. I have the same opinion about prawns, definitely a soft plastic. Whole grain rice gets a look in at times but its resemblance to gravel in the mouth lingers with me. Red meat is rare; that is, we don’t eat it, rather than undercooked. Fish is a favourite, and another protein is chicken. I’m used to nuts now, but still can’t face a hazelnut in any guise. A roasted cashew is a joy, but a nut roast is just not my cup of tea. A cup of tea is my cup of tea, I drink too many, I’m told. Strong, milk, no sugar. My other half taught me how to make a good coffee in the 70s: big spoon of the fresh ground stuff in a jug, then leave for a minute or two before straining through a tea strainer, and adding a little milk. I’m not big on coffee pod machines and faff.

When unsupervised I am apt to buy a Cornish Pasty, but I don’t eat chips unless I have a very good excuse like a longish walk before. My liking of industrial cake is intact, so Mr Kipling may get a look in when management is out.

In an enforced stay in hospital a couple of years ago, it was the industrial puddings that made me feel a lot better. ( I’m fully recovered now, thanks for asking.)

I was so taken with them that I wrote reviews of them on the next days menu choices…’ the wave of bright yellow custard nestling up to the beach of fruit backed by dunes of soft crumble was a triumph, please give the chef a week’s fully paid holiday in Skegness in a 3-star establishment with a view of the beach’ was a sample. I hope they read it.

Unsurprisingly the NHS have yet to discover the health giving calorie draining properties of the Pork Pie. Shame.