The man in my life would have been impressed by my caller. He is usually unsympathetic to those silly enough to ask me a question.
He knows I unfairly treat such occasions as an opportunity to splatter verbal diarrhoea over anyone within hearing range.
The question in the telephone conversation was about how I was finding being home alone.
I only had the chance to say it was odd, before the caller started making reassuring noises about opportunity, a new phase of life or some such.
I lost interest at that point, in much the same way people do with most of my utterances, although I did indulge in a brief fantasy about long-distance shin-kicking.
If I had been allowed to continue, I would have explained that the strangest aspect of living alone involves food.
Suddenly, a lifelong daily association between family and food has disappeared and I worry that skills acquired over many years will lie fallow and then be lost.
I came from a background where good wholesome tucker was relished and where cooking skills were valued, both in the immediate and wider family.
I am a reasonable cook, though I will never live down some disasters - the dish featuring equal quantities of spaghetti and pesto which I assured the offspring would be delicious, for one.
To avoid daily cooking tedium, I ensured all four sons took turns at making family meals from a reasonably early age.
What you miss when you prepare and eat food alone is any sense of community.
When I am banging and clanging about in the kitchen, dropping things and swearing because the food processor bowl is jammed or I have cut my finger, there is nobody there wishing I would shut up because they are trying to watch some rubbish on TV.
There is no-one to declare the offering yucky or yummy, discuss the affairs of the day, or fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes.
I briefly considered developing a liking for raw meat and cat biscuits so I could engage in scintillating dinnertime repartee with the cat, but a vision of the white-coated ones beating a path to my door ruined that.
Food for one is not inspiring (and no, dear readers, I do not want to be sent 60 stunning solo meal sensations to fry and freeze) no matter how you try to approach it.
There's also no fun having chocolate or other treats when you know exactly what you will find remaining in the cupboard and the only person responsible for what's left is you.
Where's the challenge in that? My skills at hiding goodies so they won't be eaten (and then promptly forgetting the hiding place) are no longer required.
To make up for my lack of conversation, which could make me eat too fast, I commit the sin of eating my evening meal in front of television. Between mouthfuls I can direct intelligent comments to participants in whatever fatuous reality show is screening.
Favourites are "Who's the adult here? Are you mad? Fat is the word you are looking for.
Why don't you tell him to shut up? Why would you want to tell the world this?" It may not slow me down, but it's a welcome distraction from my plate.
As I struggle to come to terms with the change in my cook status, I am trying to be realistic.
Last week, I eyed up my cast iron griddle and decided that, rather than it sitting uselessly in the kitchen gathering rust, it should go.
It had been a gift from the aged (always pronounced age-d) relative, my husband's much loved aunt, with whom he boarded for many of his bachelor years.
She was always an excellent cook and even in her 90s her visit would come complete with a tea towel full of fat, perfect griddle scones.
My griddle, found in one of her frequent second-hand shopping forays, was supposed to help me master the griddle scone.
It didn't, but came in handy for pikelets, unleavened bread and pancakes.
I like to think the aged relative would appreciate its new home at a grandnephew's flat where I expect it will allow him to wow his mates with his tortilla prowess (much more impressive than mine).
Handing it over, I urged him not to forget its history and not to lose it or let anyone steal it.
He was reasonably patient with such parenting piffle, but pointed out it was unlikely to be seen as a highly desirable item by others.
I might want it back at some stage, I told him.
I wanted to emphasise that I'm not ready to throw in the tea towel just yet, but I didn't think he'd understand.
• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
