You know, if I’d have come into this world as a brussels sprout, even though I’m an incurable optimist, I might have found it hard to keep smiling. I believe there is no more hated vegetable than the poor old brussels sprout.

When I was a kid, my mum, bless her, used to boil the living daylights out of them (as she did with cabbage) and then dish them up as an accompaniment to the rest of the meal which I generally loved. I’d almost puke and try and sneak bits of sprout to the dog (who wouldn’t eat them). Because I wasn’t allowed to leave the table until I ate them, I’d sit looking at them, with nose screwed up, for hours, trying to force them down.

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Mum even told me there were millions of starving kids in China who would love them. I’ve always wondered why she made me the middle man rather than sending them straight to those poor kids in Chana.

Fortunately, in a manner reminiscent of that kid in Dr Seuss’s book Green Eggs and Ham, I discovered at some stage that I love brussels sprouts, particularly gently fried in butter with bacon and a touch of garlic. Yummo!