Rather a lot of inches in this column seem to be devoted to food.
Anyone might think I’m something of a glutton, but I assure you that’s not the case.
It’s just that eating is one of the few true pleasures in life which mostly consists of work, children herding and sleep.
That means that, the odd dog walk aside (the one a month when it’s not raining), the biggest treats of the week tend to come in the kitchen.
That doesn’t mean I’m always keen to be cooking – or eating.
In truth I’ve never been much of a breakfast person, unless a full English is involved and I don’t have to cook it. I’ve certainly never enjoyed, or understood, the concept of a healthy breakfast.
Muesli, I’ve long suspected, was invented as a way to use the scraps left over from the manufacture of packaging.
I’ve never seen anybody enjoying the stuff – jealous people in hotel breakfast rooms enviously eyeing my two slices of fried bread and trying not to wince as they tuck into their cardboard and dried fruit mix.
Then at some point granola appeared, as far as I can tell, the unholy offspring of a box of Muesli and Tony the Tiger’s finest – honey smothered Frosties for grown-ups.
People tucking into it at Gazette Towers are desperate to convince me they’re still taking the healthy option.
Still they’re not deluding themselves as much as the porridge brigade.
Now, I’ll be the first to admit porridge is probably good for you – why else would anyone tuck into something which, if left on the hob for long enough, takes on the physical qualities of cheap textured wallpaper (complete with paste).
The thing is I’ve never seen the porridge brigade just eating their oats.
In fact most portions I’ve seen consumed appear to contain either jam or golden syrup in a ratio skewed massively in favour of the sweet stuff.
I’d rather not kid myself.
Forget the granola, mine’s a fry up...