Chef working hours are a nightmare. Sleeping with one is a joke.

By far the most common question I am asked about dating a chef is how I am dealing with ‘his hours’.

Of course, there is the inevitable mismatch of energy at certain times of the week; I am chipper and relaxed on a Friday night, while he is flat-out and focused – vigorously sautéing, stirring and plucking the occasional eyeball out of a pig’s head. Naturally, any affectionate advances are met with violent recoil until he has scrubbed down, but this is as expected. What I do find unusual is what happens when he does finally lay down his weary head. Something radical is occurring, blurring the line between work and sleep quite severely.

‘YOU’RE NOT EVEN ON BEEF’ was the first thing he shrieked in his sleep in the early hours, ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE’. Aghast and very suddenly awake, it was my turn to withdraw in bruised offence. A few weeks later, I gently nudged him to alleviate some snoring. He rolled over and whispered with conspiratorial smugness, ‘Ahh I see. A bread roll for a bread roll…’, as though revealing some great code he had cracked mid-slumber. Plenty goes on in kitchens that I don’t want to know about; but I do want to know what happens to the bread rolls.

As a busy summer season continued, I was starting to get the hang of it: ‘Take these to table two then come back for focaccia’ – understood. ‘It’s more straightforward to portion when it’s cold’ – helpful, actually. But then one night, with abject disappointment he whispered softly in my ear, ‘What an absolute waste of space’. I was devastated.

These episodes seemed more frequent during hectic periods, so I was pleased to hear him taking more of an interest in his customers as we eased into autumn: ‘I’m so pleased for you!’ he exclaimed joyfully one night, ‘You bought a house!!’. Sweet. I often wonder if these are real conversations that are resurfacing in his dreams or whether they are just jumbled impressions of his day. When things became increasingly agitated and abstract – ‘Welcome to the land of Sean Bean! Welcome to the land of Sean Bean!’ – I stopped asking.

So yes, highly-prized are the long weekend mornings together and spontaneous nights out. But when he turns over in his sleep, drapes his arm across me, and confidently declares, ‘THIS, is a perfect purée…’, I know all is well.