"Round of head yet blessed with grace, takes the soup clean to my face".

So wrote dear Shelley whilst still at Oxford, the butter dripping off crumpets on to his young poet's thighs. I cannot, will not, and indeed have no wish ever to eat soup without thinking of Shelley and this succinct, yet divine, description of the soup spoon.

How else could one do justice to that famous liquid cradle, that valiant distribution of goodness to the masses? The handle may be long, almost ponderous, next to the cheeky flash dome of the head piece but, somehow, it works magnificently ensemble.

One finds oneself transfixed at dinner parties by this dazzling display of almost Rodinesque mastery of the form. I've upset some of the most distinguishing hostesses in London as I've sat, stooped, staring at my spoon and letting the minestrone go cold.

Jake and Dinos Chapman (pictured) have recently been spotted about Hoxton with soup spoons dangling from their trousers. I do not approve of such onerous misuse.

Soup spoons are for soup - NOT TROUSERS.