Place your parsnips in an auction-bought dish. Arrange them centrifugally like the spokes of a wheel in a Brueghel painting. (Brueghel the Elder, of course.) Twirl a smattering of leaves from still-beating lettuce hearts. Shower the epicentre with French still mineral watercress. Let almonds fall where'er they may, at five centimetre interludes.

Regard your Parsnip and Watercress Salad with amusement. It's just like the pugliese, isn't it? Or that floppy Tuscan mane. It's all too precise and perfect. So, just imagine you're muzzing that young man's mane. Plunge both hands in and fiddle with your fingers. Turn it from immaculate to untidy. It may feel wrong, but it's right. It's natural, it's what happens, he really can't complain. He may tell you you've made him feel 'like something leftover on the side of the plate.' Explain that a leftover is something wonderful. One doesn't want a five-course meal all the time.