OK, I'm shallow. Shallow fried.

Sadly, there is some truth in this outrageous claim.

It all began on Sunday, when I was cooking a rib of beef. My brother and his bulldog were visiting for a few days and we were laughing in the kitchen about something or another.

My brother, who considers himself to be a bit of a chef, was advising me on the Heston method for roast potatoes which involved a volcanic hot oven and a copious amount of olive oil.

Because I was so excited to see him and was relishing every moment of sibling banter, I just opened the oven door, pulled out the sizzling tray of oil and whacked in the spuds.

Hot oven + boiling fat + distracted chef = disfigured chin Now my blistered burn resembles a map of France. Yuk.

For the last three days I have only left my house under the cover of darkness or wearing my spotty headscarf (think Audrey Hepburn) or caking my face in compeed (blister plasters) and concealer – which incidentally looks worse than my beacon red burn because people CAN see a pink, plastic circle on your face.

I have been forced to cancel three engagements already. My friends think I am shallow and self-obsessed, but that has not stopped them bringing me essential supplies because too many people have been staring at my ghastly chin in Sainsbury’s.

My mother told me that they weren’t staring at my chin; they were staring at my clothes, on this occasion my netted orange dress circa 1952, complete with scarf, sequin cardigan and wellies.

I think I look avant garde. My mother thinks I look ridiculous.

It doesn’t matter. Until my chin has healed I am not going anywhere.

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