I’ve been a restaurant reviewer for 19 years, but I never have dinner in Edinburgh

Whenever I’m in a restaurant and am asked if I have any dietary requirements, my answer is no.

However, when it comes to the act of eating out, I’m less flexible. My most important need - apart from a comfortable pair of elasticated dining pantaloons - is that I increasingly prefer lunch to dinner. I only realised that I’d entirely converted to the afternoon eating club, when I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had an evening meal in my own city.

I think I’ve been subconsciously avoiding it. That’s despite the fact that I recently moved to Leith, which comes alive at night. Often, as I get the tram home along The Walk, I boggle at how jumping the restaurants and pubs are in the evening. Still, I don’t get any FOMO. It went extinct, sometime around lockdown. I am not a nocturnal animal any longer.

In recent months, I’ve happily reviewed lunch after lunch - most recently, Timberyard, Brown’s of Leith, Nami, Nobles and Cafe St Honore - with a rare few afternoon teas in the mix. All these places had the full a la carte available, at that time of day, so I didn’t feel hard done by. You used to only get a highly edited set menu at lunch, and the full bon vivant chef’s delight kahuna was reserved for later. Things have changed. Restaurants seem accustomed to diurnal oddball munchers like me. I might not be the only one. Perhaps I won’t end up in a museum after all.

I feel that this quirk might be my age, but also something to do with winter. Going out after dark at this time of year becomes increasingly untenable. I avoid it, like vampires dodge the daylight.

For one thing, in common with others who work in front of computer screens all day, my night vision has gone to pot. If I leave the house, I feel like a mole that’s been dug up and flung into a paparazzi scrum of popping flashes. I’m beyond carrots. I can barely see other people’s faces, as I pass them in the street, and the traffic glare is jarring.

When you get to the restaurant, it’s hard to read the menu, as it will always feature a tiddly mite-sized script that’s designed purely for those with bouncy fresh youthful retinas. And, though I should maybe now go directly to using a magnifying glass or a microscope, I remain subbornly in the denial stage when it comes to needing reading glasses.

There are other reasons - apart from the fact that my seasonal clothes are rubbish compared to my summer finery - that I don’t like getting ready to go out on a winter evening.

It requires a horrible speed change, in front of our wee fan heater. This reminds me of being a kid, and coming out of the freezing sea at Portobello and being roughly towelled off by my mum. Three minutes of goose-pimpled agony.

If I’m staying in, at 5pm every day, I’m like Wonder Woman, in that I have a lightning speed and well rehearsed holding-my-breath transformation into pyjamas, dressing gown, sheepskin slippers and specs, before anyone dare suggest a walk or a quick trip to the shops to get some milk.

On winter weekends, my evenings are reserved for this outfit, teamed with telly marathons and shameful treats. Although I like to pretend I’m sophisticated, our basic snack drawer is nothing to be proud of. There is no high cocoa content Valrhona dark chocolate, or black truffle Torres crisps. I’m talking jumbo Galaxy bars, Creme Eggs (especially the special edition caramel filled ones), Frazzles, Scampi Fries, and other cheap wheaty snacks and e-number riddled dirty guilty pleasures.

We often talk about swapping a few things out, in favour of crudites and hummus, but we can’t help bingeing on our entire weekly sugar and sodium intake in one sitting.

In the same way as I don’t like brunch, because I’m unwilling to ever sacrifice breakfast, if I went out for dinner on the weekend, it would be in lieu of a snack night, and that’s unfathomable.

My metabolism has something to do with my current lunch preference too. I don’t like eating a huge meal, then going home and rolling straight into bed. Lunch is better, as you can move around afterwards, and do other things. You can let those vast amounts of food move through your system like Ker-Plunk marbles.

Same with booze. I don’t sleep well after a few bevvies. In contrast, I can have one cocktail at lunch, and I’m as happy as a clam. Day drinking always feels like birthdays.

Also, there are other advantages. I used to be able to have a big lunch out, then have a proper dinner at home later, too. In the last couple of years, my metabolism has slowed, and I’ve found that I stay full for ages, so I can just have a post-lunch egg and soldiers for dinner, and that saves us thinking about cooking or shopping later on. Thus, it’s a win win.

I’m pretty sure that my other half is happy with the arrangement too.

When you're in the date night stage of your relationship, dinner may hold more appeal. It’s more romantic, isn’t it, to be lit by candle light?

We’re beyond that though. He’s seen me in all my revolting HD glory, dressing gown, Creme Eggs, Frazzles and all. Lunch it is.

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