I have identified my worst character trait. In such a crowded field, this has been no easy task. This one wins out because it’s two equally unappealing traits rolled into one. They both concern food, or rather eating. Number one: I cannot stop coveting what others have on their plates. Number two: I cannot bear to give anyone anything off my own plate. The hypocrisy is as unattractive as a half-eaten pot of yoghurt covered in mould.

A Russian study into whether “moral transgression might enhance gustatory pleasure” has concluded that it does. French fries were fed to participants in a number of ways, one of which saw one person eating another person’s chips. Deliciously, these (identical) chips were considered by the thieves to be altogether nicer. It would also be nice if I could cite this as the logic behind my desire to pilfer from the plates of others, but for me it’s not always about the taste, or hunger. I just want it for the sake of wanting it, like a dog looks at you longingly when you’re eating even if you’re eating something the dog wouldn’t want.

One lunchtime at school I was sitting with a friend who, like all my friends, ate more slowly than me. My plate was empty while he proceeded steadily, at a sensible pace, enjoying his food. I asked him for a chip. He gave me a chip. I asked him for a bit of sausage. He gave me a bit of sausage. And so it went on.

I always did this. It’s a miracle anyone ever sat with me. But on this occasion his patience snapped. He’d had enough – not of his meal (which was barely half-finished), but enough of me. Without a word, he rose to his feet, scraped what was left on his plate on to mine, and walked off. This is nearly half a century ago and I have yet to experience anything else as devastating as a demonstration of quiet contempt.

Not that it led me to change my ways. It’s just too hard-wired. At around the same time as the food-scraping humiliation, I went on holiday to Bournemouth with another friend and his parents. In the dining room, I couldn’t help but notice that the family at the next table hadn’t finished their chips. I, having finished all my own table’s chips, remained hungry for more chips. And I could see this other table’s chips were about to go to waste. To me, the logic was inescapable: I should have those chips.

Now, if my mum had been in charge here, I wouldn’t even have had to say anything. A look at the chips, then at my mum, and a nod of my head in the direction of said chips would have had Mum asking this other family if they were finished with the chips and, if so, perhaps we could have them. But when I suggested this to my friend’s parents, they reacted as if I’d sought permission to discharge the loudest fart I could manage. Sheer horror doesn’t come close to describing their reaction.

I sat there, a study in shame, looking longingly at the unwanted chips barely an arm’s length away. Sure enough, they were soon taken away to meet their maker. All those potatoes picked, chipped and deep fried, for nothing. Heartbreaking.

All of which might or might not be forgivable in your eyes if, for my own part, I was only too happy to share morsels off my own plate. But I’m not. If it’s on there, it’s mine. Ownership is clear. Territorially, the integrity of the circular border marked by the edge of my plate is beyond question. The moment the plate is put in front of me the die is cast. This is my food, all of it, and I will be eating it, all of it. To relinquish even a little of it requires a mental adjustment I cannot make.

In the Bournemouth scandal described above, the issue was more about waste. And, being a reasonable man at heart, if there is something on my plate that I don’t want, then anyone is welcome to it. I’m on safe ground here, of course, as this will never be tested because there is never anything left on my plate.

By way of a brief pause from this orgy of self-flagellation, I should immodestly point out that I’m a good cook who takes great delight in feeding family and friends. No one leaves my place hungry – far from it. But my house, my table, my kitchen, my rules.

Dining out is problematic. Too much sharing means the demarcation lines are too unclear. If things proceed on a standard starter-main-dessert trajectory, that’s fine. OK, there may be a bit of stress about who gets how much of any sides, but as long as no one works my nerves with any of that can-I-try-a-bit-of-yours nonsense, I’ll manage. But it’s a curse of the modern age that two words, two cruel words, have crept their way in front of the word “plates” on restaurant menus.

The first of these words is “small”. Small? Who wants small? Who thinks it’s a good idea to market something as small? It’s so dispiriting. And how rarely do you see a dish described as “big”? I know what they’re up to – plainly the idea is to order more than one of these “small” plates each, with a view to – dreaded word – sharing.

At least the “sharing” plate is straight about what’s going on. But oh, the stress of negotiating who has what. The splitting of a single poppadom can get silly, with no one wanting to be guilty of taking the last bit. A game of chicken ensues, as what’s left keeps getting halved into ever smaller fragments, as if you’re exploring a mathematical conundrum, until what remains of the poppadom is barely visible. And maths certainly does come into it the moment any sharing plates arrive at the table. Here there is no conundrum, just one sum that matters: is the number of morsels on each plate divisible by the number of diners? If it’s not, for all the enjoyment I’ll get out of the experience, I might as well walk straight out of the place and go and get a bag of chips, a bag indisputably all my own.