'Everyone loves a crisp!'

Have a crisp, Jess.’ My friend Bea holds a bowl towards me. She disapproves of crisps being eaten straight from the bag. It’s understandable, given the cost of the gourmet ones she buys. Always hand-cooked using the finest-quality ingredients for that all-important delicious decadence.

‘What flavour?’ I ask.

‘Truffle.’

Bea takes one, holds it up to the light and gazes at it in adoration. Seconds later, she pops it into her mouth and crunches. ‘

Yum!’ she says. ‘Truffle – those things foraged in forests by dogs?’

‘Yep! They taste divine.’

I pick out a large crisp. ‘Interesting.’

I’m trying to be polite. Bea and I share a love of crisps. She prefers the top end of the market and indulgent flavours. Wagyu beef, Serrano ham and mozzarella are her favourites. Although prosecco and baked Camembert feature on special occasions.

I’m partial to something more ordinary. Give me smoky bacon or cheese & onion. And don’t get me started on roast chicken. They are my first choice every ‘I’m going to impress him’ time. Yet I’m open-minded when it comes to trying new varieties. I’ve experimented with paprika in Germany, oregano in Greece and olive oil in Spain. But there is nothing like home and all the familiar flavours of the British crisp.

Being a crisp addict has never been a problem – up to now. I’ve enjoyed my savoury treat in my own house or accompanying a drink in a pub if I’m out with Bea. A few months ago, she persuaded me to launch myself on to the dating scene. I joined an internet dating site.

I’d read endless articles about disasters but I struck gold the first time when I met Harry. He’s 55, the same age as me. Our early meet-ups were in coffee shops. As the weeks passed, we became more daring, and progressed from two flat whites to coffee and croissants.

It was inevitable we’d move on to alcoholic beverages. So I should have mentioned to Harry that I liked a crisp with my glass of red on our first visit to our local wine bar. I’d have suggested ready-salted, something neutral. I suppose I expected Harry to ask if I wanted a little nibble alongside my vino. After four crisp-free encounters, I took the initiative. When it was my round, I returned from the bar clutching our drinks plus a couple of packs of salt & vinegar.

‘They didn’t have any plain ones,’ I said, trying to act casual.

Harry managed a weak smile. His hazel eyes have flecks of gold. They crinkle when he laughs. He wasn’t laughing now.

‘You do like crisps, don’t you?’ I asked.

‘Eh, yes.’ He looked worried, like he’d not been truthful. I’d bought two bags so we could each have our fair share. It would stop me from seeming greedy. I’ve been known to wolf down a packet in seconds.

Harry took a pack and split it open along the seam. He put it between us, intent on sharing. After what seemed like an age, he chose the smallest crisp he could find, put it in his mouth and grimaced. I ended up eating most of them. I took the unopened bag home. Afterwards, I didn’t hear from Harry for a week. I panicked. Were the crisps a deal-breaker in our relationship?

Then, this morning, Harry texted and invited me to his home for dinner.

‘I’m going to impress him,’ I said to Bea on the phone. ‘I’ll take a bottle of wine and a bag Short story of those truffle crisps.’

‘If he hates crisps, I should stick to a pot plant.’

So here I am, ringing his doorbell, clutching a tiny rosemary bush in a terracotta pot from the posh florists on the high street.

‘Come in,’ says Harry. He has dimples when he smiles. Inside, his house looks straight out of a glossy magazine. The living room is all squashy white sofas and glass tables.

‘Can I get you a drink? Red wine? I’ve got a fantastic bottle of Chianti?’

‘Yes, please,’ I say. He heads to the kitchen. I look around. There are bookshelves full of cookery books on either side of the log burner. Harry has been gone for ages.

After five minutes, I venture into the kitchen. He’s standing in front of a fryer. ‘Oh, hello. They are just ready.’ He removes the wire basket from the pan and empties its contents on to a wooden platter.

‘Home-cooked is best,’ he beams. He looks into my eyes as he hands me my glass of wine and offers me the golden, thin slivers of fried potatoes.

I take a bite. I’m smitten.