My new husband thinks I’m trying to kill him. He’s been told (like many of us) he should eat limited quantities of red meat. 

So now, every time I bring out the steak or sausages, he views it as an attempt on his life.

The reality of our domestic existence is that I am the cook and, in general, cooks rule when it comes to menus. 

Were I competent on the fish front that would make things simpler, but I find it uninteresting to eat and hard to cook correctly.

Chicken makes frequent appearances but there is only so much a couple can eat – and although we love pasta, I try to limit my own intake. 

Left to myself in this hot weather, supper would just be a salad and cheese but any such suggestion provokes a distinctly disappointed response, as does some confection involving chickpeas or lentils.

We’ve lived harmoniously together for more than 20 years but it’s only now we’ve recently married that this incompatibility over what to eat for dinner seems to have become more obvious.

As far as I recall, the marriage vows didn’t include promising to only provide food the spouse prefers. 

If things go on in this way it won’t be separate beds but separate dinners. Except, only one of us can cook.

Last week I finally hung the many large pictures I inherited from our parents after our mother died in February. It’s a very strange feeling having them in my home. These pictures were part of my childhood for 60-odd years, and every time I went back to visit they were in the same old places.

It feels completely right and utterly wrong seeing them on my walls. Right, because of their intense familiarity, almost as if they were a part of my body; wrong because they belong in my parents’ home, and now they and these objects are no longer there.

There are also numerous pieces of furniture I have taken, such as the six bentwood chairs in our kitchen and a neo-classical style drinks cabinet now housing bits and pieces in our bathroom.

In fact the place looks like a pale imitation of the home where I spent my childhood, with every room having to be changed to accommodate them all.

I can’t quite work out whether this is perfectly normal behaviour or demonstrates some unhealthy attachment to a past I am desperately clinging on to.

Over the past few days I’ve been recording my forthcoming book, Black Coffee And Red Lipstick – Notes On Living. Reading the manuscript out loud I noticed endless lines I regretted not having phrased better, along with the odd typo.

Among them was a line about eyeliner being worn by the Egyptians from 3100 BC. Or that’s what I originally wrote. In the typescript it had been altered to 3100BCE. I thought this was a typo but my excellent producer told me this is now the correct usage.

No longer are we meant to use Before Christ or Anno Domini but Before the Common Era and Common Era to apply secular neutrality. What complete nonsense.

I’ve asked for the old BC to be put back in and will happily be regarded as some cultural and societal throwback.

My stepdaughter, Emma, has been staying with us. She has been working for a US newspaper picture desk. Much of her time is spent calculating which pictures on the net are AI-generated.

Last week there was one doing the rounds of the actress Zendaya supposedly pregnant, and Emma attempted to explain the methods she used to detect this was a fake. It was beyond my pay grade.

There are so many of these flooding social media that verification has become a massive part of working on reputable news sites. Departments are dedicated to it and the role is as essential to understanding the information we receive as the old school reporter with a shorthand notebook used to be.

Nonnamaxxing is an Instagram trend, celebrating the virtues of the traditional granny, particularly if she cooks up a mean bowl of pasta.

The cosy grey-haired matriarch, with her gently paced lifestyle, chatting to her neighbours, wearing old cardis and spending her evenings crocheting, has become newly inspirational.

I get the appeal but who actually knows such grannies? The grandmothers I know are as likely to be hiking in Nepal, working full-time and generally dashing around the place. If they have the time to think about how they want to be regarded, it is as interesting role models for their grandchildren rather than placid caregivers.

I don’t count myself a grandmother but I am a step-grandmother, and as a result took my first trip to Nando’s last week.

My American step-grandson requested the visit and I admit I was apprehensive. I had imagined that Nando’s would be disgusting. How wrong I was. I am a total convert. My chicken peri peri and tomato salad were delicious, the staff delightful – and I’ve discovered there’s one down the road.

A farmer friend says there is tumult in the world of potatoes. This year’s crop is suffering from the heatwave (they won’t grow in very high temperatures). But the rise of fat jabs has meant far fewer people are eating these carb-heavy vegetables.

McCain, one of the biggest suppliers, is considering closing a factory in Lincolnshire that produces its Fries To Go brand and farmers aren’t sure whether they should turn to other crops in future. However, the evidence of my own eyes was that there’s a huge number of chips being ordered in Nando’s.