I can hear myself getting fatter | BBC Radio Solent's Alun Newman

They call it food science. Or it could be catering mathematics, or possibly it's called The Art of Alchemy and the Science of Heating Produce.

Life was so much simpler in my day.

That’s what I have to say as I get older.

It could be re-phased as: ‘I don’t understand as much as I used to. I’m also not sure I want to.’

What is it about the conclusion of ‘food and catering’ that’s so exciting? Why the relief? It is because we can address the elephant in the room. My stomach! The Dadbod.

One of the main downsides of being the over-keen, the unrelentingly supportive parent is that you create complex issues.

You want your children to do better than you in life. That’s only natural because it may lead to a better care home or possibly some kind of live-in annexe where they wait on you hand and foot.

Ideally, I’d go for the really posh care home. That way you haven’t got to be moaned at when the TV is too loud or you're still in bed at midday watching Flog It. Who cares.

However, the over-supportive parent often doesn't know when to quit.

When it comes to cooking technology and design, in the past six months I have supported the quest to make pork pies.

An exam was expected and in a bid to chase the grades I must have eaten between 20 and 30 hand-made pork pies which ranged vastly in quality, were all made from scratch ad I learnt that lard and butter are key.

I used to love pork pies.

But I got a letter from my arteries asking me to back off the pie diet. I took little notice.

Of course, that exam was cancelled in the end and I got another letter from my arteries saying: ‘I told you so.’ I was pleased to see the back of lard.

But we moved on to another challenge with exams attached. Home-made pasta and sauce.

The YouTube channel Pasta Grannies is not only amazing but also these ladies have been making pasta for their entire lives. It’s beautiful, wafer-thin, and delicious. Home-made takes a long time to perfect.

To get to the dizzy heights of edible food you have to pass through the gates of hell known as ‘crimped shaped balls of soggy gluten’. Adding mozzarella and basil doesn’t help.

I got another letter from my arteries reminding me how old I am and to take life seriously.

The final stage, and I assure you this madness is true, is the exam to decorate a Tunnock’s Tea Cake.

You have to dress the plate with piped chocolate and purées, make it look as though it’s Michelin-starred. Remember, you eat first with your eyes.

My inability not to be encouraging has seen relentless family trials, tests and run-throughs.

The final plate and tea cake design was agreed upon after a considerable short-list. Last night we ate them again and I had two.

My issue is that I love these tea cakes, I love education and I love my daughter. It’s the perfect storm. I can hear myself getting fatter.

Before I sat down to write this I had a coffee and another tea-cake (undecorated, nude).

I literally can’t eat them fast enough. I have become addicted and it’s time to go cold turkey.

I got a final written warning from my arteries. Enough is enough they said. Man cannot live on marshmallow alone. Even though I’ve tried. Many times.

FEELING RATHER SHEEPISH

How do you find a farmer? It’s an important question that you don’t know you are going to need.

I drive the same way home most days and the route is usually trouble-free. However, breaking from tradition there was an event.

Driving down a road flanked by fields either side a car coming towards me had stopped, as had a van in front. I pulled up to see occupants getting out. Not wanting to miss the action and as there were only three of us I joined the adventure.

A very large sheep had escaped from the field. I’m not from farming stock and I tend to find most animals a little bit threatening. As did the woman who stopped on the other side of the road. Every time the sheep moved she screamed slightly.

Fortunately, the man in the van was fearless but he did ask: ‘How do you find a farmer?’ It was nearly as tricky as the following question ‘which field did this sheep come from?’ We had sheep on either side all looking similar. Some had a blue dot on their backs and others a red one. It was starting to look like a GCSE maths question.

As no one knew the Find a Farmer Helpline we took matters into our own hands. It’s safer in the field we all agreed. The woman and I tried to find the hole in the fence to push the sheep back. At that point van man, a rational, practical fellow, started to usher the sheep up the road. ‘We’re looking for the gap in the fence,’ I cried. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to use the gate,’ he said. Did I say I’m not from farming stock…

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