Finally, I’ve found the perfect cereal bowl, exclaimed my youngest daughter the very second I walked through the door.

It turned out that my medium sized saucepan was the, somewhat unglamorous, receiver of such high praise from my 16 year old.

Apparently its virtues include the ability to, at last, hold a quarter of a packet of cereal at one go – which helps explain why I regularly buy my own body weight in cornflakes.

The handle is explained as being another of its qualities.

This conveniently enables the diner to carry it round the house with ease – and inevitably spread even more mess than usual.

Hmmm, no comment.

However, I can’t be too judgemental about this minor revelation. True, what makes the perfect cereal receptacle has never been high on my list of quandaries – but I have plenty to ponder over myself.

One thing I have never been able to get to grips with is why, when the national speed limit is 70 miles an hour, cars are sold that can – oh so effortlessly – reach roughly double that speed?

Call me a spoilsport but isn’t that just asking for trouble?

And what about all the time and money spent designing new cars?

The ones gracing the roads decades ago seem to me far classier and stylish than anything being produced now. Why not just bring them back?

Here’s another. Why do advertising gurus think it’s reasonable to expect us to believe that wealthy glamorous celebrities buy £7 hair dyes from the supermarket to apply in their own designer bathrooms?

I suppose they would at least be likely to have the luxury of a cleaner to clean the mess up afterwards.

Personally I spend the entire 20 minutes the hair dye is on armed with a bottle of bleach clearing up all the splashes I’ve made (often an alarming shade of purple).

One of life’s other little mysteries is what underwear my generation will wear in our eighties.

As far as I am aware, I may be wrong, today’s little old ladies have a tendency to sport the rather large, ironically named briefs, that they’ve favoured throughout their entire lives.

Surely that doesn’t mean we’ll be mincing around in tiny thongs? Perish the thought.

Every time I devour an episode of Masterchef I always wonder how peed off the contestants are if their dish isn’t one of the first sampled.

Surely any old acorn squash and almond soufflé with asparagus foam is going to suffer badly if eight other plated offerings are ruminated and cogitated over first?

Another little puzzle is that for years now I’ve been frequenting shops where everything costs a quid. Nothing’s gone up and nothing seems smaller. Does that mean that ten years ago we were all paying through the nose?

And why do girls shuffle around in Ugg boots?

I’ll stop now with a thought no one would deny – the simple fact that I need to get out more... a damn sight more.