I never want to see another pork pie again | BBC Radio Solent's Alun Newman

I remember making a quiche and also being taught how to peel veg.

Other than that, it’s had little memory recall impact.

Now, however, it’s Food Technology and it's a lot fancier.

It involves meal plans, pictures, understanding food standard guidelines and making several demonstration dishes.

Whether my daughter will ever get to do the GCSE exam is unknown.

What is known is that our house constantly smells of lard.

The reason for this 'Christmas into New Year aroma' is one of the items my daughter’s trying to perfect.

The Hot Water Crust Pork Pie.

Lucky me, you might be tempted to think.

Pork pies are great, there’s little doubt on that point.

They prop-up the picnic.

They excel nestled next to the pickle.

They beat the scotch egg with ease.

However, there’s always an emotional food limit.

I’ve lost count of the number of pies I’ve eaten.

As I write this, we have pork pie and salad for dinner.

Even my daughter has said she’d rather not see one ever again, but we press on.

You might be tempted to ask the philanthropic question: ‘Just give them to your neighbours?’

Yes, you’d be right that neighbours have enjoyed her wares in the past.

It is far easier to tempt people when we’ve had a glut of blueberry muffins or rice crispy tray-bake chewy things.

Wandering over to a neighbour with some high-fat pork-based products that’s still warm and made by a child gives most ordinary human adults an instant stomach ache.

Even though she’s actually got a five-star food certificate!

Those green number signs you see in a takeaway window.

If a teenager can get a five-star rating, how on earth do some adults only get three!

Careful, I feel another stomach ache coming on.

Even with the relentless tsunami of pork products, I continue to push them down with a fatherly smile and encouraging words that would make the town of Melton Mowbray well up with tears.

The real issue is making the pastry.

To make it, you have to boil lard and water, then pour it on your flour mix.

It stinks.

Lard’s not as popular as it was when I was a child.

My mum used to ask me to put slithers of it in a Yorkshire pudding tray when I was a kid.

Lard was always around but not now.

Last weekend, we had the ultimate perfect storm of odour.

The dog had been out for a walk and was soaked.

My daughter was melting more lard.

I lit a discounted wax burner and dropped on a surprisingly cheap pomegranate and coconut cube of hope.

The house started to smell like a Caribbean island that has a significant sewage issue.

It was rotten.

I walked upstairs to continue my smell survey and unfortunately wandered past my son's bedroom.

I thought it smelled strongly of old pork pie.

Maybe I’m developing pie related mental trauma?

I ventured in to see two half-eaten pies degrading next to his computer.

I could have been irritated that he left them there.

I could have been frustrated that they weren’t even on a plate.

However, as I reluctantly picked them up whilst wincing, I thought ‘at least he’s trying’.

We’ve all been trying.

It's just pie’s the limit!

Oh the shame of the bottle bank

Is there something just a little bit shaming about glass recycling?

I’ve noticed that I seem to amass glass in robust sacks that once held dog food or grey nylon bags left by the postman. Eventually, I start to feel like The Hoarder Next Door (Channel 4, narrated by Olivia Coleman surprisingly, in 2012).

I seem to have empty glass bottles of wine and beer on an epic scale this year. Empty jars of jams and pickled onions that I’ve no recollection of consuming.

I venture to the car park with the different coloured bins and the same thing always happens.

I discuss with myself that I must cut down on red wine (that’s the shame).

I then see someone else, a stranger recycling as well, and I blurt out something like ‘someone’s had a good party?’

Almost always the fellow recycler is more in shame mode and doesn’t want to unpick why they also seem to have three-quarters of a metric tonne of glass spilling out of their boot.

There’s no easy conversational way out so we turn to the incredibly satisfying task of posting glass bottles through the hole of the greedy recycle bin, hoping for a smash.

The entire experience is always ruined when you either pour wine/Worcestershire sauce/prosecco down your wrist. Or, even worse, you get smeared by a jar of marmite. That really is a low blow.

I’d love to have glass recycling as part of the council collection. That way I can judge my neighbours from the comfort of my own home and they can avoid the ridiculous comments.