There is one food, having heard of their exotic delights on the tongue, I decided my husband and I really ought to develop a taste for. It was therefore with great excitement that I toddled off down to Folkestone harbour to buy a couple of oysters.

On producing said delicacies, my husband’s first and only reaction was, “I’m not eating that.”

Disappointed, but determined not to be beaten, I picked up my oyster. Philistine that I am in this regard, I did not have the first inkling what to do with it, but I had heard they could be eaten hot or cold. I plumped for ‘as seen’. Cold.

With a sharp knife, I began to prise off the top of the shell. To my absolute shock and horror, the lid was pulled back down! I’d forgotten the thing would be alive and kicking.

Undeterred I continued with my quest and soon there the poor thing lay, naked as the day in the lower half of its shell. I swear it eyed me, daring me to proceed.

Well, I did. Of a fashion. I couldn’t face putting all of it into my mouth so I cut it in half. Yes, I know!

The first half slid down my throat, just like they said it would, and I waited for the serotonin to kick in. It didn’t. With a face like a twisted hippo’s I spat out the offending blob and chucked the other bit unceremoniously in the bin.

I took a deep breath. My glance stole over towards the table where the other oyster was patiently awaiting its fate. I began to quake. What to do? What to do?

Five minutes later, a passer-by would have blinked not even an eyelash at the sound of a car hitting the brakes, the clunk of a car door opening and the tiniest plop, as my remaining oyster hit the high-tide of Folkestone harbour.

Good luck, Little Oyster. I wish you well.