Although I have the culinary know how of a service station cook, it’s surprising the amount of times food has been a divisive issue in some of my past relationships.

An example of this would be the incident that determined the eventual break-up with my first lover.

I have never, ever, stood anyone up. I may be the Yves Saint Laurent of time when it comes to being fashionably late, but it’s a dead cert that I’ll be around at some point on the day I arrange to meet someone.

So getting stood up by my then lover was the penultimate straw.

But not the final one.

It wasn’t the fact that she’d stood me up that really got my goat.

Oh no.

It was when I called her to find out where the fuck she was and found out that she was at her flat.

Eating crisps.

The fact that she was shovelling crisps down her neck when she should have been meeting me outside a freezing cold Holborn tube station really stuck in my throat (pun intended).

And we never saw each other again.

But faced with a choice between indulging in comfort food or providing immediate sustenance, I hoped that I’d never make the same mistake.

But a couple of nights ago I almost did.

For reasons I’m not going to go into (until we break up), tuna is very much a four-letter word in our relationship. All I’ll say is that, having dated vegetarians before, some really are more obsessive than others.

And t’other night, in the midst of an emotional confrontation, I had to choose between letting things cool down for a few minutes and having a tuna roll to pass the time before having a go at digging myself out of the hole I’d dived into, or sorting things out immediately before I ended up having to put my (unused) Durex stash onto eBay (the used ones are currently up for auction...).

Trust me: never has a tuna roll looked as delectable as it did then, encased in a M&S baguette like an oyster in a clam.

But, wiping a tear from my eye, I walked over to the open window and dived out of it threw the roll in the direction of the bins (I live on the third floor, so its downward trajectory was all the more dramatic).

And did my great sacrifice have the desired effect?

Er, eventually.

And to immortalize the moment of great sacrifice, my lover took a photo of the decomposing roll the next day (minus the tuna, so MJohnson’s rabid cat, Tubs, has evidently followed his master to Finsbury Park and is continuing to stalk me).

And whoever thinks that poignant moments can’t be found standing next to the bins by a stale roll with ants crawling over it, they have no imagination whatsoever.

TKK: ever willing to compromise in the name of continued regular sex relationship harmony.

Although you can fuck right off if you think I’m going to stop smoking.