One day I was always going to have to eat quinoa. It might as well be now

As a rule, I tend not to frequent places where there is a sign on the door saying ‘no sharps’. But I thought I would make an exception for the Eden Project. Surely, I thought, as we walked from the ‘Banana’ car park to the ticket office, they must mean sharps as in penknives, or something. The number of people in the queue wearing sandals made from reconstituted tyre rubber was a further warning sign but I chose to ignore it.

As we stood amid the rainbow-striped cardigan-wearing clientele and their brightly dyed hairstyles, the builder had a look on his face that said: ‘I think we’ve wandered into the wrong sort of place for us.’

My parents insisted on buying the tickets. When they came back from the counter my mother had a pinched look on her face. The damage, with a guide book, was £100.

‘This greenhouse had better be good,’ I said.