I was discussing her death with Our Gert recently.  It’s not imminent, you understand but it pays to plan.

What prompted it was a meal we were having in an Italian restaurant in Poole.  She was having pasta and I Caesar Salad when I commented that when I started dating again after she’s shaken a six I would make sure I didn’t order salad on our first date

“else there won’t be a second one” said the frivolous Mrs C.

How we laughed.

The problem, of course, is that no matter how skilfully I load my fork some sprig of unruly lettuce always manages to spring off and slap on my cheek leaving a tell-tale and unromantic  splodge of salad dressing thereon.  Not the stuff of successful first dates.

Far better, I thought, something less rebellious.  Pizza, Chicken Korma, Pie and Chips even, if my erstwhile date was not so culinarily adventurous (an ominous portent in itself I would have thought).

But then the thought occurred to me that there isn’t a foodstuff I haven’t dribbled down my shirt, got stuck in my teeth, sneezed down my nose or spilled embarrassingly onto my flies.  Crispier foods like a well done crust of the previously mentioned pizza I have chipped off my plate, requiring a ring of slip fielders around the table.

“Sit and hold hands with her on a park bench” offered the impenetrable Mrs C, “or take her for a drive in the country.  On no account let her see you eating until you are well beyond love’s intimacies.”

“Sound advice” I thought.  Also it occurred to me as we were leaving the restaurant, don’t mention that I’ve blocked their toilet.