This has all been pertinent this week, for cooking and indulging have both raised their heads.

Twice a year I take part in 'A men's meal'. Peter Hain, the Shadow Secretary of State for Wales and his now retired political agent, Howard Davies, join me in treating our ladies. We go on rota for starters, main course and pudding and we gather in the home of whoever has his turn at the main dish.

I was on starters and I was guided by the advice of cooking guru Angela Grey. I went for stuffed field mushrooms with leeks, garlic, butter, cream cheese, goat's cheese, nuts, cranberries and parsley all thrown in at various stages, before or after the singe in the oven. It was a resounding success, may I add, although huge dollops of wine coloured the opinion I have no doubt.

There is a safeguard against stress too, in that, however lacking I am on this kind of artistic foody flair and creative and colourful adventure, Howard is worse. On each occasion we all feel that his wife made his course, but we can never prove it. He also has an innocent smile, one that would fox Interpol, which disarms us completely. His wife, also named Elaine, tutors him so well as to how he prepared the course that he sounds so convincing when he describes it.

I also spoke this week, on the programme, to Michael Winner, the renowned film director who is now a fearsome food critic for the Sunday Times. He was a joy to speak to, surprisingly full of common sense, about food preparation and presentation. He had no time for artistic designs on plates; saucy squiggles immediately irritated him.

He takes no prisoners in his write-ups and I don't know how he can be in a convivial photograph with restaurant or hotel owners and staff, and then lambast them in his report. I just take the coward's way out. When the waiter asks me if everything is all right, I usually reply: "Fine thank you," even it's not. I just don't go to the place again. Not the best policy at all, I suppose.

I've had my moments, mind. I remember, in my education days on a scholarship visit to America, being hosted at a dinner party by a sophisticated lady in New York. She'd once been married to a Welshman who, in her words, was good for only one thing. Whatever, I didn't press her as to what his Celtic prowess was.

In each individual cutlery arrangement on the table, there was a knife, fork,spoon and something that looked like a medical instrument. As it turned out, it was a scoop to get the marrow out of your lamb bone. It was a long night for me, I can tell you. Yuck!

I also recall something similar in a restaurant in the south of France. Elaine and I didn't recognise anything on the menu, but we took a stab at it. Panic took hold when the waiter took away my knife and fork and, yes, another medical instrument turned up. I didn't recognise the shellfish when they arrived. Not oysters, not mussels, not cockles even, but something new and sinister.

Elaine said: "Look, call the waiter, tell him you've made a mistake and change them, or you'll be up in the night." No, pride, cowardice and the need to avoid a fuss took over, so I ordered four pints of lager and a mountain of bread and I got into a rhythm of 'bread, shell fish, lager; bread, shell fish, lager; bread, shell fish, lager...' It worked a dream, and I wasn't up in the night.

It's funny, Elaine and I think we are of peasant stock: bread and potatoes, simple fayre. Mind you, 'simple' can be great. Some of the best meals I've had have been at various rugby clubs, organised by outside caterers out of tureens, £15 a head. Actually, the best beef I've ever tasted was from an outside caterer at a carvery in Bettws Rugby Club, Ammanford.

So there we go, I know my place...and it's usually fulsome.

Roy

Roy Noble is bringing his famous storytelling skills to a computer near you as part of the BBC First Click campaign - aimed at encouraging people to take their first steps to getting online. If you know somebody who needs help to get online, call the free BBC First Click advice line on 08000 150950.

My past flirtation with art goes back to school days when it was one of my subjects at A level. I was reminded again of my interest last week, as I officially opened an art exhibition in St David's Church Hall in Fleur de Lys near Ystrad Mynach.

I was definitely a B-grade artist with C-grade aspirations. I include a couple of my attempts at sketching for your consideration. The course consisted of three elements: architecture, still life and composition - or landscape scenes if you like.

In the sixth form with me was Judith Williams, who lived in the shop on the corner near Amman Valley Grammar School. She was stupendous in art. What a natural talent. Although our teacher was Bryn Samways, of whom I had a very high regard, I also learnt a lot from Judith, especially in the use of light and shade to create solid forms. We worked mostly in powder paints but she could have taken on any medium with a delicate sweep of her brush and a sensuous flick of her blonde hair.

On making my move to higher education, I ended up in Cardiff Training College, being hell-bent on a teaching career. The college was a cell of Spartan sporting warriors. Physical Education was the main religion and the place was awash with young men walking about in green tack-suits. The air was permanently filled with the niff of winter-green or industrial strength liniment.

We, of the non PE wing, felt a wee bit intimidated. The fact that art was one of my main subjects, geography being the other, left me a little vulnerable in the macho pecking order. To add to my discomfort, I was the only boy in a class of 16. To be fair, I dug in, and was doing quite well until the entire class moved on to embroidery. That was it, I dropped art and replaced it with history.

Years later, on a teaching course, I tried art again. There was a choice of still life or life drawing. Rumour was on the road that the model in the still life class had been sent from heaven... or Playboy magazine.

Either way, the class was heavily over-subscribed. Just two had enlisted for the flower pots and fruit of the still life class, and 37 were queuing for Miss Cosmos in the life drawing group. In fact, we were so packed in that it was positively dangerous. You could have had your eye out from the pencil of the person sitting next to you.

Life, however, is full of troughs and pot-holes. As we sat, in anticipation, for the model to make her breath-catching appearance, the door finally opened... and in walked a green track-suit, inhabited by one of the PE students from my past college.

The air was a mixture of mass disappointment, hissed expletives and the familiar aroma of wintergreen. This time, history was not an option. My 2B Steadtler pencil and I were trapped.

Roy

Roy Noble is bringing his famous storytelling skills to a computer near you as part of the BBC First Click campaign - aimed at encouraging people to take their first steps to getting online. If you know somebody who needs help to get online, call the free BBC First Click advice line on 08000 150950.