I'VE been a tad dazed and confused of late. It would appear that despite an overwhelming sense of impending doom and the apparent end of everything, summer has arrived with a welcome fanfare. As we bask in the golden rays; sipping dodgy Prosecco with tolerable bantering partners; awaiting the inevitable, inappropriate evenings spent out on the tiles and on the mooch – life is, for the moment, sweet as a nut.

Summer is, by a country mile, my favourite time to dine. Restaurants that are lucky enough to find themselves a few yards further than pram distance from day-tripping hotspots are usually a bit quieter at this time of year and are invariably more pleased than usual to receive our righteous custom. We can spend more time languishing in Burgundy-drenched reverie and lamb-fuelled daydreams, summer is the absolute top trumps.

Despite my undying love for all things summery there is an associated recurring nightmare that can have me looking for corners to hide in,

Terror! Thy name is Barbecue and I shall forever despise thee. A more despicable pastime I cannot imagine, foul demons of a hitherto unknown, tenth circle of hell have conjured thee from such a cacophony of unspoken horrors that I stand in awe of the sheer madness and bedlam that has been both encouraged and, unbelievably, celebrated on this sacred isle.

Brothers and sisters, should we find ourselves unavoidably detained at such an Antipodean atrocity we must furnish ourselves with the finest armour divine Bacchus has conceived. Perceived through a foggy haze of expensive mood fuel, we may even find ourselves able to grimace a half-smile before sneaking through the fence and parking ourselves in the nearest juicer.