“Can we just stand by the door a bit longer?” His voice is pained, almost desperate. My son is obviously in some discomfort. I burst out laughing. “At least when I belch it isn’t going ‘gloop’ now.” This is progress, gloop has been the operative word in his kitchen this morning.

As usual I was there before he was out of bed, poised, and ready to make breakfast. Not only has Nick finally decided he ought to learn to cook properly, but he is also learning to eat healthily, discarding both the previous bad habits and over two stone in weight over the past few months. For this feat he elicits both my admiration and absolute jealousy. Not that he was overweight to begin with, I hasten to add, just heavier than he has ever been and there is a weight limit for the charity skydive and it might have been a little unfair on the horse upon whose back he has an ambition to ride.

Breakfast coinciding with my arrival, I get to both cook daily and share on occasion, especially when I make porridge. I go for the simplicity of fruit and homemade yoghurt, being particularly fond of black cherries or the blueberries that turn the porridge a nice shade of purple. Nick does all that but with the addition of dried fruits, nuts, cacao and seeds… with probably more calories than I would dare consume in a week. And every day there is a smoothie.

Now, these are no ordinary smoothies and I take no responsibility for them at all. I’m just the skivvy who peels, chops and prepares the small forest of fruit and vegetables that find their way into his blender. And, having tasted on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, I give them a miss. Should you ever be invited to my son’s for breakfast, I recommend you do the same. Seriously.

Every three days I wilt the spinach, chop the assorted ingredients and cringe as he combines perfectly good fruit that would make an awesome smoothie with anything else he can fit in the jug to make something that looks as if a gastrically challenged goose has been let loose in his kitchen. Especially when he overfills the jug and the resulting gunge crawls slowly down the sides of the blender like some alien invader.

In spite of his best efforts to keep the stuff both within the confines of the jug and of a consistency that will, with some effort, make its way up a straw, when the blade stops whirring there is always a long, slow eruption as the air makes its way, with difficulty, to the surface and emerges with a kind of gloopy pop. The straw is a necessity. He tried drinking the stuff without, but it cemented itself to the moustache.

This stuff is the consistency of the porridge. It refuses to dissolve when I try and rinse it down the sink, clinging stubbornly to anything it touches and threatening a major plumbing disaster. All I can say is God help his insides.

This morning he seemed a little low on fruit, but had plenty of spinach, cucumber, avocado and carrots. This, barring the addition of the raw chocolate, may have made a nice soup, but the mango, kiwis and apples made for an interesting mix. A solid pint of the stuff accompanied his breakfast, and by solid I am talking consistency not volume. I added a pint of water to the remainder, to little avail. The spoon still stood up unsupported. I filled the carafe for the fridge, with some difficulty as it flopped in soggy lumps into the glass, reserved another pint of surplus for his lunch and the rest went into the space he had made by this time.

Bacon and egg had preceded the porridge and he was on his second pint of gloop. Neck and jaw muscles strained to get the stuff up the straw and he was, himself, looking a tad green about the gills before he made it to the fresh air and allowed gravity to do its work. It was a while before he could manage the mouthful of water he needs with his pills, I have to say.

I am all for this healthy eating lark, and as a mother, there is a certain satisfaction in watching a son voluntarily consume vast quantities of fresh vegetables, but I do wonder at what point taste went out of the window… well, good taste anyway! I venture to predict that if the gloop that lurks, further solidifying in his fridge, is an example of healthy food, a whole host of complementary products will soon be required.