IT GOT to the point that every time I ventured out someone pointed out what a miserable witch I’d become.

“You haven’t had much luck recently,” they’d say politely, (meaning ‘you miserable witch’), “nothing tickled your fancy then?” (‘you miserable witch’), or “I’m glad I’m not a restaurateur in Oxford” (‘you miserable witch’).

In my defence it’s not that I’ve had PMT for an entire month, but I just haven’t eaten anywhere good for a while. And believe me, there’s no one more peeved about this than me.

But having become slightly reclusive, I realised that if I didn’t get back on the horse, it would bolt permanently, taking my job with it, while a much nicer, quieter, more docile pony would replace my stable slot.

And so I accepted the advice given on the side of the football pitch last weekend (I kid you not) and took myself off to The Trout at Tadpole Bridge, where none of the spectators had ever had a bad meal. Tempting fate? Perhaps, but necessary nonetheless. It was either that or book myself in for anger management therapy.

Apparently, The Trout‘s riverside views put you in a good mood from the start, but as it was pitch black when we arrived I can’t enlighten you on this.

And as Mr Greedy has just given up smoking, and thus drinking, he finds it hard to get out of bed in the morning, let alone go out for a meal, so it was a miracle we got there at all. No pressure then!

The welcome we received was however enough to warm the cold, hard cockles of our hearts, as the lovely Helen Pugh presided over the bar, making all and sundry feel part of the gang.

It’s a lovely place, albeit in the middle of nowhere near Faringdon, with some wonderful characters in situ. Mr Greedy nicknamed the long-haired and handsome landscape gardener, who bounds in every night for supper, Mr Darcy, although between-you-and-me I thought he was more Lady Chatterley’s lover. There were also lots of Gap Yah types in red trousers and gilets, but all were obviously regulars for good reason because it’s an absolute Godsend of a pub.

So after a reviving and chatty drink at the bar, where we realised the award-winning Trout is a labour of love for Helen (she has children and a husband at home in Cirencester), we sat down for dinner courtesy of her wonderful French chef.

We started with the bubble and squeak with poached egg, bacon and hollandaise (£6.95), which was so delicately flavoured I wanted to moan out loud, but refrained in case I encouraged Mr Darcy. The ‘special’ smoked mackerel and dill ‘slaw’ (£6.25) was also quite delicious, you could smell the ‘smoked’ element rising from the fish and it was so superbly accomplished, that the fish didn’t need to be oversalted, it’s flavour speaking for itself.

The ’slaw’ was also beautifully concocted, bearing no resemblance to the gloopy, mayonnaise ridden version the English seem to favour.

Next up was a wonderfully strong olive and sun-dried tomato linguine (£11.95), also a special, whose sauce was beautifully seasoned, and the pan fried calves liver ( £14.95), which Mr Greedy helpfully described as ‘too livery’ before adding ‘but that won’t be their fault’. The accompanying fondant potato, cauliflower puree and wild mushrooms making it the perfect autumnal offering.

Even choosing the dessert was tricky – a first for me – as I perused the raspberry creme brulee, before settling on the chocolate and salty caramel fondant with honeycomb ice cream (£5.95) which was delicious although the salty caramel element was missing entirely. And the cheeseboard was another brilliant addition, with the chance to choose three of six cheeses on offer. (£6.95) So there we are, thanks to Helen, my luck seems to have changed and I’ve broken the curse just in time for Halloween.

Maybe I can even be seen out in public again without my broomstick.