Dawn chez Sewell is, by any man’s standards, not a jolly affair. More oft than one ought, one has spent the entire night propped up poring over a well thumbed Sotheby’s catalogue, quite dizzy with excitement and good cocoa.

By the time the larks are chorusing and the milk bottles tinkling one is bleary, blotched and baying for sustenance of any kind. It is with palpable relief then that breakfast is prepared.

One used to be an outspoken advocate of the morning’s three Ks: kippers, kedgeree and kidneys – and would be still were it not for the bumbling fool who calls himself my doctor. These days, alas, one has to make do with less hearty fare and your esteemed writer breaks his fast daily with nothing more than an Earl Grey and a grapefruit half.

What joy however there lies in the eating of a grapefruit! This fruit is the Judas Iscariot of the breakfast table; he flatters you with sweetness and then stings with bitter treachery. Pale, soft, forgiving flesh then a tart arrow not far behind.

My silver grapefruit spoon is never far from my side. I even had it concealed in my napsack as I traversed Nepal as a youth on an elephant. It seems to me to be the slightly less well brought up cousin of the teaspoon – all hooded head and razored teeth, ready to mug you with it’s serrated grin.

If you do not possess a grape fruit spoon, buy one - Divertimenti on Wigmore Street sell them for a fair ninety pence. At the time of writing they are out of stock, and will remain so until the new year.