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There’s a fine art, I’ve learnt, to making a flask of coffee. You are essentially doing it blind and as such weights and measures play an essential part. No relying on your eye for judgement as it’s only when the fluid reaches its pinnacle that you’ll know for sure and at that point it’s too late anyway.

I use two and two thirds teaspoons of instant coffee covered with two splashes of milk to create my morning elixir. I’ve realised that the reason you see so many people with beat up flasks is because they daren’t change them. It’s taken them years to achieve the correct mix for their kick-start potions and a new container would mean starting over. Maybe not as stressful as moving house but certainly not something you’d want to do on a weekly basis.

I wedged my sparkly new flask into a bag, amongst biscuits and technology, and set off for Mark’s house. I’d decided to take time off, in line with folk week, so I could embark upon a mini festival of my own. Mine would involve lots of eating and relatively small amounts of music. This of course meant I hadn’t got the train at 5.54 and therefore still needed to judge some biscuits. At Mark’s we got straight down to it as we had 4 matches to get through and my dinner would be hitting the table within the hour.

The first quarter final brought Jammie Dodger and Milk Choc Digestive head to head. In a surprise upset JD outperformed its chocolate haired rival and left both Mark and I in shock. In silence we kicked off the next battle. It was the much-awaited Custard Cream against Ginger Nut. CC got my vote and the parasitical GN got Mark’s. Score draw. Luckily for us, biscuit aficionado Amaya Bodimeade, aged 2 years and 7 months, happened to be in the room. She gave a thumbs up to Custard Cream and we all gasped as Ginger Nut went tumbling from the competition.

Next to take an early bath was the Bourbon. Mark and I had both preferred the Dead Fly (aka Fruit Shortbread) as it worked so well in coffee and melted in the mouth. Bye bye Bourbon. The round was completed when the old world met new in the contest of Nice v Chocolate Hobnob. It was close, very close. But we both decided that under competition rules CHN was the winner. The question of how many we could eat without feeling ill was raised but that wasn’t what we were here to decide. The Chocolate Hobnob lived to fight another day. Au revoir Nice.

I waddled away from Mark’s with an empty flask and a heavy tummy, happy in the knowledge that in six biscuits time this whole thing would be over and I need never fill my flask again.