In the not inconsiderable time since my last spoon report, the world has suffered some painful jolts and shudders. The opulent, bloated West has declared war on a tiny, bearded Persian and a pane of glass in my conservatory has been smashed with a kite by the yobbo children from next door – leaving my poor Tuscan plums all pricked and popped by shards of raining glass. I assure you, dear reader, one intends to sue.

It is at times like these when we must turn to Mistress Whimsy for calm and succour, and it is with this attitude of frivolity and jollification in mind that I ask you to turn your thoughts to that most charming little gentleman of the dinner table - the DESSERT SPOON.

Like the soup spoon’s taller, thinner, older brother, the coclear bellaria has teased and delighted the sweet toothed of this world since Nerone Cesare held his wicked sway over young Rome. Where exactly does its seductive power come from? Is it the enigmatic, almost shy way the smooth, slim head bows forward as if in total submission and utter abandon? Is it the suggestive, quite, quite vulgar way the top of the handle is thrust outwards in defiance like a cheap whore’s filthy bust?

In my mind, it is a little of the two, and it is this glorious duality, this almost Pinteresque diplay of synchronised metal dialogue that causes us to return, again and again, to this spoon; like a rapist to the scene of his crime – eager to taste one last time that forbidden honeyed drip.

Half mother/half mistress, this equisite piece of culinary engineering can, I’ve been reliably informed by my nephew Roddy, also be used to scoop the stone out of an avocado pear.