One in the eye for aphrodisiacs

My cooking isn't very imaginative or sophisticated but I recently got a book called Party by Polly Betton with cocktail and treats ideas, so I was inspired to make roasted scallops with bean blossoms and oyster martinis.

Apparently an oyster's aphrodisiac quality is down to sympathetic magic - in other words, due to the "feminine" shape of the oyster.

I'm not convinced, but if the oysters fail, the alcohol should do the trick. I shake the vermouth and vodka with ice and strain it into a well-chilled martini glass, shuck the oyster and slip it in.

My martini glass brings to mind Dita Von Teese and her signature act. A shiver of excitement runs through me at the thought.

I'm going to see Dita this week. She's in London to perform at Cointreau Privé, a pop-up speakeasy, and I'm lucky to have got myself a ticket.

I down my salty martini in one. But realising I may need another to get the full effect, I dash back into the kitchen to prepare a couple more, leaving Neanderthal in his armchair.

Contemplating the shape of the oyster again, I'm running a little plan of distraction through my head.

But as, without thinking, I rub my eye a little piece of grit gets stuck in it. I try but fail to open my eye.

Neanderthal comes up behind me. "What's the matter?" he asks, getting closer.

"My eye, I can't see," I try. But he's busy trying to console me. Soon we're back in the lounge, on the floor. But mid-flow, I peer into the mirror and see my bright-red eye streaming with tears.

I bring things to a halt in a panic. "I've got to get to the hospital," I say. Pulling on some clothes, we rush out to get a taxi to Whitechapel Hospital A&E.

"If you can't see, how will you find the cash to pay?" jokes the driver. I'm not amused and slam the door behind me as we pull up.

Fortunately, I'm attended to quickly. An elderly man takes a shine to me (it must be my semi-undress, I think) and pesters the doctors on my behalf.

The culprit - a minuscule piece of grit - is revealed with red dye and removed with a tiny metal pin.

Sadly, by the time we get back home our oysters have somehow lost their aphrodisiac quality.