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This whole thing began with yet another of my family’s disastrous attempts to civilize me. As much as they would have been delighted to see me settle down into domestic bliss, the wife of a doctor and stoic member of the local PTA - I am afraid it was not to be. However, I must commend them on their undinting efforts to render me "matched" with a certain member of the medical profession in whom I was foolish enough to show any interest at all. Not that he wasn't a nice enough man. He was well-mannered, intelligent, and amusing company but, somehow, somewhere along the line my observations were interpreted as "potential husband material", I'm sure. No sooner had I heard the words leave my mouth: "Hmmm...He's interesting" (as I watched the object of my supposed infatuation attempt some type of square dance or other), than I felt the glare of four pairs of armour-piercing eyes lock onto their target.

Yes, a square dance. What on earth was I doing at a square dance in the first place? I had gone to support the family, of course. My sister-in-law was instrumental in the organizing of this event and I felt beholden to go and show my interest in her social life. Don't ask me why, I had a sudden and uncharacteristic attack of family values, I suppose. So, that was it. Operation Matchmaker swung into action. The doctor and I. Dinner out with my brother and his wife, dinner at my brother's house and then (now admit it, you saw it coming) dinner at my house.

Now, I have never been terribly adept in the kitchen. Baked beans on toast are a challenge on a good day so the thought of cooking dinner for this doctor initially struck me full of terror. I relaxed when it was pointed out to me that he was a doctor and thus qualified to assess the problem should I inadvertently poison him with my attempts to "do a Delia".

The good doctor, towards whom I was being shoved, kicking and screaming (but inwardly, in good British tradition) towards, was Spanish. He had brought with him a bottle of wine, which was, of course, red and produced in this man's home village as he was anxious to acquaint me with a little piece of his country and optimistically began pouring me a drink. I don't know what happened next. All I can recall is reaching out to pick up some strange object or other, known to normal kitchen-dwellers as a utensil.

Concerned that he had been receiving the wrong signals and that he might think I was interested in getting acquainted with more than a little piece of his country, I got flustered. I was already juggling loaded pans and a semi-frozen cheesecake, which my guest had also thoughtfully brought along with him for dessert. So adding alcohol to the equation was just an unnecessary hazard. I see this now. Somehow, I managed to knock over my glass of wine and the bottle that smashed at his feet, soaking his shoes and socks and ruining his trousers. Great.

Waves of paranoia swept over me as I wondered if he thought I had done it on purpose and was simply waiting for me to say "why don't you let me have those and I'll wash them for you - here, you can use my robe". This kind of plan never works the way that you want it to when you want it to yet; here I was, in the centre of an accidental spillage that looked all the world like a scene from a Carry-On film. Murphy's Law strikes again. Eventually, doctor mopped and just ever so slightly damp, we sat down to eat.

He pushed his pasta around a little and then, spearing a mass of something on his plate, he held it at eye-level, looked directly at me and said, in the type of tone you would expect from a doctor who is speaking with a disturbed and suicidal patient

"...and this is...?"

I was unable to answer as I was transfixed by my cat, that had obviously been watching the proceedings from afar, and had launched himself stealthily onto the counter top (just behind my dinner companion) and was quietly tucking into his own dinner of choice.

Cheesecake...