A dinner comedy in two parts.

Part I: The adventures of Momo and recently-emancipated Mimi

As my persistent love handle informed me recently, I really love food. This is why, despite having a fabulously steady job in The City; at nights I take off my pressed shirts in exchange for a bleached apron and occasionally do catering for my former boss.

Before you judge:

1. It transforms my dining menu for any given week into something like this:

Monday: Pasta with sauce. Water. Tea.
Tuesday: Pasta with red sauce. Water. Tea. Digestive.
Wednesday: Monkfish wrapped in Pancetta, Scallops with lentils, Lamb chops with potato and fennel mash, White Chocolate Semi-Freddo, with sips of a 1986 Chateau d'Yguem Sauterne for dessert
Thursday: Salad, balsamic vinegar. Water. Tea.

2. Alan Rickman. You may know Alan Rickman as the cheating boss from Love Actually, or Professor Snape from all the Harry Potter films. I know Alan Rickman as the dude who never drinks champagne and who really likes canapés. He also shares a special category with Carl Kasell and Gregory Peck, as to 'Men whose voices make their faces and age irrelevant.' He's also a regular guest at the house where I get all these catering jobs. Where we set our scene.

In the kitchen when the door rang I hear an antiquated generically Germanic voice. 'HALLO DAHLING' …why, it's Mimi Lipton!

Despite what her name might suggest, Mimi Lipton is not a porn star. According to Google, she is the world's leading expert on Tibetan tiger rugs. Go figure. She was born about 80 years before the emancipation of Mimi. I consider congratulating her on breaking loose from those shackles, but hold my tongue.

I then started to ogle her awesome old lady style (jewelry pieces the size of basketballs, big flowy dress) but then I see the pest at her feet: A bijon frise, whose fur has been uber-poofed, straightened, shaped and talcum-powdered so heavily that he snows every time he yips. She brought a teddy bear masquerading as a dog.

'COME HE-AH, MOMO, DAHLING' she calls. Mimi and Momo. Of course.

Everything was fine until I made my first round of canapés; 'Duck, rocket, and plum chutney?' I offer.

'VAT? VAT IS IN IT? IS IT VAIRRRY SALTY?'

I shake my head no. Then, as I'm bending over at 90 degrees (she's 4' and sitting on a chair), holding an enormous gold platter, she painstakingly begins to dissect the canapé. 10 minutes later, all that is left on the platter is a blob of chutney and strand of rocket. The duck gets tossed down the gorge of McFluffin.

The monkfish wrapped in Pancetta suffers the same fate; it IS incredibly salty, but at this point, am actively trying to give the dog a kidney stone.

While my gut is to be insulted for the chef, and mortified for myself, a reality check hit me.

The thing about being 24 and partially financially reliant on your parents is that, for 20 pounds an hour, yeah, I'll feed f'ing canapés to a dog that looks like a pillow.