Caitlin Moran wrote in the Times this weekend about the link between sex, X-factor and M&S ready meals. (Answer: they’re all beneficial for the country. If you can get round the paywall, you’ll find the full article here.)

They’ve been linked in my life, too, but not quite in the same way. Several years back, I had a pretty serious crush on a colleague, who subsequently became a good friend. It never went any further, because, at the time, he wasn’t in a fit place to have a relationship, but for nearly a year we spent the majority of Saturday evenings together.

I’ve always liked cooking for people – not least because, if you’re single, when else can you justify cooking a roast with all the trimmings? Saturday after Saturday I’d spend all afternoon cooking, he’d rock up at the door, we’d eat, and then we’d watch X-Factor. He went vegetarian for a while: the chicken in my chicken pie magically turned to Quorn. There were leftovers? I’d wrap them up and he’d get to take them for lunch the following day. But never, ever, did I get to fuck him.

Fast forward a year or so and I’ve moved far away from Emotional Eater and met someone else: someone who wants to fuck me and who I want to fuck. The desire to feed him, however, remains. The thing is, if you work full time, feeding and fucking have a habit of becoming incompatible. If you get in from work at gone six, and you only have an hour and a half before your date arrives there’s bound to be a conflict between whether you cook or whether you shower and shave your legs.

The first time we fucked I fed him M&S pizza slices (he was pretty scornful about that one, and I’d back him up – it was far from the best meal I’ve ever had, too).  We’ve had a number of better ready meals since. The two occasions I did attempt to cook properly have both been problematic: the first time I accidentally brushed my wrist against the oven rack and burnt myself badly enough that I still have the resulting scar. The second time he was already buried deep inside me by the time the oven timer went off, and there was an uncomfortable mid-thrust pause as he wondered which took precedence: his climax or his dinner.

So, over time I’ve reached the following conclusion: save the ambitious cooking for friends, and let the supermarket feed your date. Or, if you’re firmly in the anti-ready meal camp (or just don’t own a microwave), there’s a quick and highly satisfying alternative: the fish finger sandwich. Because who wouldn’t fuck Captain Birdseye, right?