It’s the time of year when Oxfordshire’s men transform themselves into chefs.

Having been to a few garden parties over the past few weeks I’ve observed a definite pattern of behaviour.

Firstly, the BBQ will take place regardless of the weather.

Secondly, the man of the house will always be found lurking behind fumes of charred meat, beer in one hand, lethal looking tongs in the other.

Thirdly, what can only be described as a sort of blokey barbecue chat takes place. Why is it that men consider the hallowed BBQ to be a male preserve? And what’s so hard about it anyway? Is there anyone who doesn’t know how to stack up charcoal in a small chimney-like arrangement then set light to it with a match and fire lighter, then walk away and pour a drink?

It isn’t rocket science so why, oh why do men consider it necessary to have so much discussion about it?

Is it the exact positioning of the sausages on the grill? How to arrange them, so they are equally spaced, above the glowing embers and naturally how, then, to cook them? It all seems simple enough to me: prevent said sausages from burning by moving them around a bit. If they burn, take them off. Job done!

I think it must be the primitive hunter gatherer instinct hidden inside the average executive modern man that drives them to feed their women with a burnt, char-blackened and yet weirdly still raw offering. And lo! He is transformed into Lord and Master of the Meat. That and the fact that many men don’t – or won’t – do any other cooking the rest of the year, other than an occasional beans on toast.

As I have a summer birthday, we often have a garden party to celebrate and inevitably a barbie is suggested to ‘save me the bother of cooking’.

The sequence of events is fairly predictable. Several weeks before, I send out the invitations and organise final numbers of guests.

The day before my party, sees me pushing a supermarket trolley laden with all the required food and drink. The day of the party, I prepare all the vegetables/ salad/bread rolls/rice, marinade the meat, get the dishes/crockery out, make the desserts, salad dressing, unload/load the dishwasher, chill and pour the drinks.

Finally, my man will emerge triumphant from the garden shed with our barbecue, plus all the essential tools required to turn meat on a grill. As it won’t have been cleaned out since last year, he will then dump ash on newly-mowed lawn. (No need to clear it up as ‘the wind will blow it away’).

Just as the guests are about the arrive, he will materialise in an apron emblazoned with the words Head Chef and announce that he’s going to do all the work, because it’s my birthday and I deserve a rest!

I get given a glass of warm prosecco and am told to put my feet up before the serious job of cooking begins.

Dear reader, am I ungrateful?