On my last fortnightly frolic on this folio, I mentioned that I would never want to be a traffic policeman in Helensburgh.

Actually, if you have a tick, I have an even bigger employment bête noire. Worse than having a notebook bereft of speeding drivers’ numbers would be a notebook full of scribbles about food.

I say this knowingly, because my best friend is a food critic for a Scottish daily newspaper. I can’t imagine anything worse than continually trying to find a different way to describe a pork chop.

Because there is so much hunger in this world, I can’t abide the lust so many people display about eating. It pains me. When I was a little boy, I remember seeing dreadful pictures on the news from famine-stricken Africa where children of my own age walked around with their stomachs swollen not from overeating but from hunger.

Then there’s Gaza. There is more than enough food in this world; the problem is that it isn’t in the right places.

And when somebody talks about a meal in glowing terms, eulogising about each ingredient and sensation, I put my fingers in my ears. I am absolutely the last guy to watch cooking programmes on TV or make a beeline for that new restaurant.

Yes, I love my grub, and lots of it. But the only emotion I display before, during and after eating is gratitude.

I don’t live to eat, I eat to live.

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As an adopted ‘Burgh boy, whose loquacious lexicon now includes the words Millig and Captayannis, I am well aware that the best thing to come out of Dumbarton is the train to Helensburgh.

As such, I unexpectedly stopped at one of the town’s supermarkets the other day to use the loo and thought I’d be as well getting the messages while there.

"Those are nice sausages," said the girl on the till scanning my purchases, "but I prefer the ones with apple in them." I smiled. "And those beans in chilli sauce are lovely, especially in a casserole. And those chocolate eclairs are great but have you tried the dark chocolate ones?"

This went on.

As I left, I vowed never to return because of the invasive critique of my trolley. As mentioned above, I have no interest in food other than eating it.

Moreover, I was glad I wasn’t purchasing the weekend alcohol supplies, or worse, the monthly ration of loo roll.

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It was a moment I never thought I’d ever see, but every day is a school day.

Ordinarily a visit to London’s Jermyn Street would see me walk away with bundles of shirts and ties of every hue and tint.

It was a habit I picked up when I was on TV every night, reporting from one noteworthy event or another. One had to be smart and one had to wear a different shirt/tie combination every day.

But with five years having passed since I last appeared coiffed, barbed, tailored, suited and booted for the cameras, I realised on a visit to the big smoke last week that there was no longer any need, and I’d be advised to spend my money on something else, or better still nothing at all.

And with my Army career set to end a year from now, I will have to rethink my wardrobe altogether. Charity shops stand by.