And transform our love into Great Artichoke.’

I am not a natural or confident performer. My primary aim when reading poetry in public is to get the words out without stumbling. I am so fixated on this that I often have no sense as to what it is that I’m reading. And that’s why – even as the sound of the audience’s laughter began to percolate my consciousness – I was oblivious to the fact that I’d inadvertently left my phone on its Auto-Courgette setting.

I pressed on:

‘Such lofty asparagus can’t be ignored.

You make my head spinach, for goodness’ sake.

Don’t make me go back to the drawing broad beans,

My magical Lady of the Kale.’

I could hear Toby Salt sniggering in the background. I admit to being a little surprised; this was a love poem, not one written for cheap laughs. I continued:

‘Love is chard and can hurt shallot;

Our emotional cabbage not inconsequential.

But I need you as my parsnip-in-crime

And together, we’ll reach our potato.’

I heard myself read the word ‘potato’. This puzzled me greatly: there were no potatoes in my poem. I ploughed on regardless:

‘I am a prisoner, trapped in your celery;

Without you I’m broccoli, defenceless.

For only you can salsify my desire,

And I, in turnip, will radish you senseless.’

No, that didn’t sound right at all. I looked up, confused. Liz was blushing. Toby Salt was guffawing and wiping tears from his eyes. I peered down at my phone and read the poem once more, this time in my head. Feeling stupid, I hastened back to the comfort of pistachios. Liz told me that she thought it delightful and it was my turn to blush. I played along with the pretence that it had been a deliberate ploy on my part.

Toby Salt, of course, was insufferable. He kept making jokes about it for the rest of the evening, at one point asking me whether I was familiar with the work of Seamus Auberginey. But the joke was on him; as everyone knows, the aubergine is a fruit rather than a vegetable. I held my tongue but I’m pretty sure that this fact was not lost on Liz and the rest of the group, and that Toby Salt must have looked very foolish indeed.

Liz came over to me as we were leaving. She had a spare ticket to see a play written by a friend of hers. It was for Thursday evening if I was interested.

‘It’ll be awful,’ she said. ‘Two and a half long hours of biting social commentary and hard-hitting political critique.’

It sounded wonderful. But then I remembered Mrs McNulty and the penis-shaped crop circle that had appeared on my back lawn the last time I had turned her down.