Hook, line and sink, sink, sinking...

I interviewed this guy yesterday for Fluid Foundation – TV chef, Valentine Warner. You may have seen him in a semi-aroused state, praising his own culinary creations on the BBC series 'What to Eat Now'. Beeb bosses have dubbed him the 'Russell Brand of the kitchen' and I must say, I can see the similarities. Look at that unbuttoned shirt, those manly hands, the gleeful smile as he spreads his chosen bird's legs...

I put this comparison to him, one he flatly denied, of course. He wanted a discourse on food and his latest TV series, being a TV chef and all, whereas I wanted to talk hair – how does he keep it so voluminous? I also asked him where he lived and before he had a chance to reply, assured him I wouldn't stalk him. This might seem like an odd thing to say at an interview, though not when you have a history of stalking. But that's a story for another day.

Also this week, I attended the annual luncheon of a well-known motoring institute, on behalf of Tractor magazine. All went relatively well at first. I managed some successful networking, despite having zero knowledge of, nor interest in, cars. It always astounds me how enthusiasts think everyone else shares the same unbridled passion for their hobby. I was spoken at for a full hour about engine sizes. I nodded politely of course, but if the glazed over eyes failed to denote my boredom, you'd think the entire bottle of wine I consumed before our starters arrived, would have said something?

Anyway, we had sat down to lunch when I thought I should do the rounds and introduce myself. After shaking hands with the rest of my table, I was about to reach across to the girl opposite, when I noticed she had a prosthetic arm. I observed it was her left arm and so naturally, I assumed the right would be fit for a handshake. So, over I go, extending the hand of acquaintance when out of nowhere, the right arm is raised from its hiding place under the table, and a hook is produced.

I was immediately thrown. One failed limb I can deal with but this was entirely unexpected. She waved it at me in polite acknowledgment of my attempt to observe etiquette and was, no doubt, letting me off the hook (I couldn't resist).

She was just about to resume her conversation with her lunch partner and that would have put an end to the embarrassment. Naturally, I couldn't let it go for fear of being seen to discriminate, so, I made the call and shook that hook. Rather vigorously I may add, in an attempt to convince everyone at the table that I carry no prejudices whatsoever towards Britain's disabled populace.

The girl smiled, seeming rather bemused by my obvious anxiety, and we carried on with our meal. I had almost wiped the incident from my mind when, on taking leave of my fellow diners, I felt obliged to do yet another round of the table, entirely forgetting about the hook. When I reached my friend once again, I remembered, mid hand-extension, what I was dealing with and terrified she might not be so forgiving this time, I immediately retracted the hand and waved it in the air in an enthusiastic fist pump, muttering something about what a great lunch this had been. I legged it before I could gauge the reaction.

Between my bunny boiling behaviour at the interview and inability to engage with those of limited mobility, it has been a week of unrelenting mortification. I have just about recovered and am off to review the London Christmas Taste Fest today. I have been told by my editor I'll be interviewing a TV chef. As long as he's not hot or disabled, I think I'll be OK. I refuse to even contemplate the outcome if he's both...