Come today, however, Daughter was tired and grumpy, and would not wear her bunny ears. At nursery, I saw children in Gruffalo suits and home-made SpongeBob SquarePants sandwich boards; and I dropped off Daughter, in her pyjamas. They were clean on this morning, I promise.

Tomorrow is International Women’s Day. My inbox has been ringing throughout the day with messages from businesswomen about how they will be spending the day. I will be picking up my car from the garage, which is rather prosaic; but I will at least have baby swimming in the morning, a real highlight of the mummy/Daughter week.

I recently attended a focus group with Frugi, previewing the company’s AW13 clothing range for babies and children. I wondered aloud why bright blue dungarees were labelled as boys’ clothing, when I’d be quite happy to put them on my daughter. “Lots of people say that,” said director Lucy Jewson, “and I don’t disagree. But our sales figures say otherwise – it’s pink that everyone buys.”

While on maternity leave, I came across a website called Pink Stinks. I thought this was a bit harsh – I don’t mind pink, just not all the time, and preferably not pastel. OH also noticed a pink prevalence when buying Daughter’s last birthday present from a well-known high street toy retailer: “It’s all pink, plastic and princesses,” he sighed, before buying the single wooden toy in the shop.

Perhaps a more serious part of International Women’s Day is the consideration of how women live in other countries, and the celebration of strong role models. I’m all for that. Over the past year, I have been struck by the serenity of Aung San Suu Kyi, and thoroughly admired the fortitude of Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani girl who was shot in the head by Taliban supporters for daring to campaign for women’s education. Her positive attitude on coming round from surgery should be an inspiration to all.

I often attend networking events at which I’m asked to promote my job to young people – tell them what I do, why I love it, how I got where I am today, etc. At a recent do, a male counterpart looked rather dejected. It turned out he worked in a traditionally masculine industry, and had spent much of the morning surrounded by all-girl groups who he assumed were a lost cause.

He was probably right, but I thought it a shame that, as his field is one supposedly crying out for more women to redress the balance, he hadn’t been better prepared by his employer to encourage those girls to apply, and to tell them why it’s as much their world as his. I was even more disappointed when, following some gentle probing, I discovered views that I thought went out of fashion with the ark. He felt that the onus was on women to shrug off male banter, and that those who didn’t weren’t right for the profession. “You can’t change men like that – you just have to fit in,” he said.

It saddens me that a generation of young men still see life this way. It’s the equivalent of saying “If you can’t stand the heat …” or “Get a sense of humour, love.” The idea that a woman might be forced to leave a job, not because she’s no good at it but because she feels intimidated and unsupported by colleagues, seems plain wrong.

As a student barmaid 20 years ago, I recall being the subject of sexual attentions. One man regularly had me in stitches. “Ooh Kirstie, I’ll make love to you, but not while you’re wearing those socks,” he would say. I didn’t mind that – it was a light-hearted gag, no harm meant. But the guy in the back room who told me I had nice breasts, and then proceeded to stare at them, was different. When I asked a male colleague to serve him, I was told in no uncertain terms: “If you can’t do the job, you shouldn’t be here.” It probably didn’t help that as a university student, I was considered la-di-da. Class and gender – the double whammy. Posh bird.

What it actually boils down to is bullying, and collusion – you fit in, so if doesn’t affect you. But if people took a stand, we could stamp out these attitudes for our children, and our children’s children.

Am I a feminist? If that means being a person with rights and opinions, who wants to be treated the same as others, then hell, yes. I’ve told girls they can do anything they like – no doors should be closed because of their gender. But sometimes I wonder whether I’ve got it all wrong. Thanks to our Suffragette ancestors, women today have it so much better – but we’ve still got a long way to go.

On the plus side, Frugi plans to categorise its online shop according to age, so you can decide for yourself whether your two-year-old wears flowers or dinosaurs. It’s a small but significant step towards equality, and I say “aye” to that.

http://www.welovefrugi.com

For anyone who has been away from Planet Earth, or at the very least away from Cornwall, the controversy has raged since a report was released revealing details of Cllr Brewer’s comments to a female worker for Hayle charity Disability Cornwall, which helps parents of children with special educational needs, at an equalities event in 2011. He suggested that disabled children “cost the council too much money and should be put down”. She made an official complaint; a year later, Cllr Brewer apologised in writing. Six months later still, the politically incorrect exchange has gone public, and the beleaguered councillor has been forced by widespread outrage to surrender his post of 26 years.

Apart from demonstrating the tendency for social media to descend into mob rule, what interested me most about this sorry affair is what it is acceptable to say and to whom, and when an apology is required. Cllr Brewer’s response to the furore was that he had “not intended to cause offence”. This stance is either extremely naïve, or an untruth. Quite who he thought would find such a comment inoffensive is unclear, as I would imagine that most people of normal sensitivities would be horrified, let alone a disability rights campaigner. He compounded this by saying that his comments were made when he was “hot under the collar” and was looking to provoke a debate, so he must have known they would touch a nerve.

It reminded me of an incident at university some 20 years ago. It was the boat club dinner, a predictably alcohol-fuelled event liable to end in high jinks. Tradition dictated that personalised menus be passed around the room and adorned with comments, mostly kind with the occasional “Who are you?” thrown in. Memorably, a member of one of the men’s teams suggested that he had a “cure” for his homosexual female counterpart. She was upset; he refused to apologise on the grounds that it was “a joke”.

We covered this in the college mag. The editor conducted a straw poll of his male friends, who agreed that the offended party lacked a sense of humour. I appeared to be a lone voice of sympathy for the woman in question, believing as I did that the perpetrator should at least apologise for upsetting her, even if he didn’t understand why his comments were offensive. His refusal smacked of arrogance, homophobia and mysogyny. But hey, we were young (and inebriated). Some of the people involved might feel differently now (or might not).

I am by no means perfect. I sometimes point at the elephant in the room and I’m not great with secrets. Even my best friends would tell you that I’m a dab hand at putting my foot in it. But they might also add, generously, that I am what the Hitchiker’s Guide To The Galaxy would have described as “mostly harmless”. I never mean to cause offence, and am blessed with enough self-awareness to know when motor-mouth has kicked in. Apologies are swift.

Truth be told, I am trying hard to improve in this regard, but after 40 years, I don’t see myself joining the diplomatic corps. (This from a person who, when told by a fellow mummy friend “You look slim,” replied “You look … well.” It wasn’t my finest moment. You know who you are. Big, big sorry – again.)

Had I ever uttered a phrase as appalling as Cllr Brewer’s (unlikely as it is), I would have apologised immediately and profusely, and offered as large a donation as financially possible in the hope that the incident would go no further. As my good friend Jess said on TV last night, these things might be forgivable among friends and colleagues; but to for someone in Cllr Brewer’s position to say such a terrible thing to someone who would so obviously be offended gives a new level of meaning to the word “ill-judged”.

Sorry? You don’t say.

My friend Jess’s blog: http://jessicamilln.com/2013/02/27/my-son-didnt-choose-to-be-disabled/

I was watching as my partner worked for COI – not for its revered film-making unit, but co-ordinating the regional events that would back the campaigns beamed into our homes during breaks in Coronation Street. However, you’d have been just as likely to watch if you’d been a member of the Tufty Club, or if you bore a soft spot for Charley the cat (voiced by Kenny Everett – who knew?).

Foe me, the show offered an insight into how public information campaigns had shaped my own approach to life. It amazes me that while I would never be allowed to watch horror movies, I was actively encouraged to view some of these short films so obviously inspired by them. I vividly recall the chill I felt, as a little girl, upon hearing Donald Pleasance’s Grim Reaper intone: “I am the spirit of dark and lonely water.”

And I once begged a teacher not to make me watch a gruesome film called “Building Sites Bite,” having already been reduced to tears by a similarly graphic short depicting children dying in accidents around the home (drinking fertiliser from a lemonade bottle in the garden shed, for instance). As each met a grisly demise, their teacher stripped their name symbolically from their coat peg. What an unfortunate class.

Did these films deter me from playing by stagnant water or slurry pits, from drinking household fluids or flying kites by pylons? I’m not sure I’d have been minded to, even if the opportunity had arisen.

The campaigns that made more of an impact included the sustained appeal against drink-driving. This was illustrated by a conversation down the pub, which revealed that older friends seemed quite comfortable with the idea of drinking, then driving home – it had been socially acceptable in their youth, and besides, they knew their limits. In contrast, I and friends of a similar age exercised zero tolerance, having grown up with films that showed the dire consequences, from physical disability and death to emotional trauma and criminal records. As a young child, the sight of such an advert at Christmas (boyfriend/girlfriend go out for a few drinks, boyfriend drives home and has a crash, girlfriend winds up on life support) made me cry.

Then there’s “Clunk Click, every trip”. I won’t set off on a journey until I know everyone has belted up, even in the back. After all, they are the ones who will hit me, as evidenced in “Julie knew her killer” (her son, who crushed her to death due to lack of a rear seatbelt). As with drink-driving, or speeding, I am haunted by the idea that my actions might result in death, if not mine then that of a loved one, or of someone else’s nearest and dearest.

These messages work. I don’t quite understand the argument against the “nanny state” that conspired with the current recession to bring about the closure of COI in March. Not everyone is born with the same amount of common sense or civic responsibility. Sometimes people need telling, and COI found endless ways of doing this. A more recent campaign targeted teenagers through mobile phone footage of a distracted youth walking straight into the path of an oncoming car. This film went viral, and highlights a very real problem – I often check my mobile while walking, and I’m a lot older than the target audience.

When I was at primary school, the Green Cross Code Man visited my home town to instruct us gently in the safest way to cross the road. Now I have a child of my own, I feel a huge sadness, and a great weight of responsibility, that I will have to teach her these things without his help.

That was my conclusion on Wednesday evening, when Cornwall Today was beaten to the title of Regional Magazine of the Year at the 2012 Newspaper Awards. The nosh at the Park Lane Hilton was very nice, but a trophy would have sealed the deal. Sadly for us, that went to Cambridge publication CB. The same went my Cornish Guardian colleagues, who were pipped to the post of Weekly Newspaper of the Year by the Cumberland News.

But while we might not have brought home any gongs (and given they were unwieldy pieces of glass, I was quite relieved not to have to cart it home on public transport), we took great pleasure in flying the flag forCornwallas loudly as we could. This was an international gathering, with competitors from as far afield as Ireland and Frankfurt, so we were in good company. And the judges said some very nice things about us, notably that CT was “a huge magazine”. Cheers, guys.

It was the first time I’d been to London in two years, and my first night away from my little girl. It was a wrench, but as she seems to have hit the Terrible Two stage, I took my leave graciously in the knowledge that Daddy and Granny would have tears at bedtime.

The journey up took five hours – it’s a long way to go not to win anything, but hey-ho. Maybe that’s why I have so little patience with the capital. When it takes so much effort to get there, I expect some kind of payback. And the hassle – at Paddington on the way back, I left the Tube to find crowds stopped at the gates due to congestion on the Bakerloo line. I felt smug to be leaving it all behind me.

As I headed back to beautifulCornwall, I took great comfort in the messages left on Cornwall Today’s Facebook page. Take National Trust – Heart ofCornwall, who said: “On home turf, to all of us in Cornwall, you are number one. Stand proud, Cornwall Today!” Or Kath Mulligan: “You are always number one in my book and I am thoroughly enjoying reading all the goodies in the May issue – trying to ration myself to about 10 pages a day to make the pleasure last:-)”

As it’s the readers we aim to please, maybe we’re not losers after all.

It’s a long time since I moved house. I had barely left studenthood when I moved in with OH. He often jokes (I think) that my most significant contributions to the household were the tiny milk pan my gran sent with me to university, and the cheap, red-handled forks we now use to feed the cat.

How different things are today. Fourteen years later, we seem to have covered every available surface with possessions of varying quality. Moving house is a prime opportunity to cast one’s eye one’s collected worldly goods. It is often illuminating, and frequently exasperating.

We have enough books to open our own library, were anyone interested in the contents (me: foreign languages and pop music; him: cars and world dictators). Looking through them has been fun; I have planned my reading for the next six months, focusing on disposable chick-lit and period novels which can then be consigned to charity shops. Mind you, this does rely on me staying awake after a day of work followed by an evening of toddler control.

Our CD collection has grown exponentially – and when I say “our”, I should note that merging our separate collections last year was as big a sign of commitment as any marriage ceremony. I alphabetised it for a second time upon moving into our rented flat, only to see it trashed and strewn the very next day by a toddler with no respect for Fairport Convention or Fairground Attraction.

The flat was initially an uncluttered, peaceful haven, free of toddler hazards. This notion has evaporated since the contents of our three-storey house have been transferred to this ground-floor, two-bedroom accommodation.

For many months, I flitted between flat and house, which seemed less like home every time I visited. Living out of two places reminded me of growing up, when my mum worked nights and I would stay with my grandparents three nights a week. I would invariably find that some vital item was in the wrong house, and so it was this time.

No matter how many sippy cups I bought, there would never be one in sight in the moment of need, so off I’d trot to buy another. When we move to a bigger house, I will dedicate an entire room to my EU sippy cup mountain. I’ve also acquired several pairs of baby nail scissors – one for each abode and one spare, rather like tea bags in a pot.

We moved most of our furniture a few weekends ago with the help of Jonathan, a friend who possessed the brawn that we both lacked. He also had a good line in phrases deemed suitable for removal men: “Just let me get a purchase on this,” or “Let the weight take the strain,” delivered with a theatrical wink. Contrary to my expectations, there were no Right Said Fred moments of pianos falling through ceilings, or endless cups of tea.

A couple of weeks later, Stephanie helped us paint a room and took charge of cleaning. She handled the hoover with nifty expertise, and cast a discerning eye over our remaining possessions. Everyone has them: wilting plants, items that have “sentimental value” or “might be mended”. Every time I fill a box with yet more of this junk, I ask myself whether I should be taking it to the tip rather than paying good money to store it. Alas, they hold me powerless in their grip.

When she visited us in Truro on Easter Monday, Stephanie was amazed to discover that OH’s parents lived right next door. “I thought you meant figuratively – like up the road,” she said as we walked the few steps it took to say hello. It’s a real boon, not only for us but also for our beloved cat. Regular readers may remember my concerns about moving Polly. Fear not, she is as happy as a pig in muck, having quickly worked out who our friends and family are and which doors are open to her. She currently counts three houses as fair game – as the other two are considerably tidier and quieter than ours, I can’t say I blame her. I sometimes feel tempted myself.

Recommended storage: M-Store are just off the A30 at Roche, easy access 24/7. www.givemesomespace.org

Do you have a Moving Story, or know someone who does? E-mail me at knewton@cornwalltoday.co.uk

Mother and Daughter at Caerhays Castle, Cornwall

So, Mothering Sunday has been and gone, and my telepathic abilities failed me yet again. When I thought “LIE-IN”, I meant for me. No such luck – I was up with the lark (as we call 8am at a weekend round our house) while OH snoozed on. I was deeply jealous of those mums who updated Facebook statuses with tales of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on toast (my favourite). Although, as one friend said: “When they’re old enough to want to do it themselves, it’s more likely to be something cold, that you wouldn’t dream of eating in bed – like a chocolate spread sandwich.”

It wasn’t all bad. In the kitchen, I found posh chocolates and a card; then we all went to Caerhays Castle on Cornwall’s south coast, where OH’s mum and I were treated by our menfolk and enjoyed a beautiful early spring afternoon surrounded by magnolias in resplendent flower.

Parenthood is, put quite simply, an amazing experience. It may be the hardest job in the world at times, but it’s definitely the most rewarding. Occasionally, OH and I ask ourselves if we are “good parents”, doing “the right thing”. We usually conclude that if Daughter seems happy most of the time (she does), then we’re at least as good at it as anyone else.

Becoming a parent has changed my outlook on many things. I’m not sure I ever appreciated Mother’s Day as much as I do now. I didn’t understand just how much one invests in one’s children – love, hope, ambition, not to mention time. I wonder what Daughter will look when she grows up, what she will choose to do with her life. I hope she’s successful, but most of all, I hope she’ll be happy, and I already find myself making willing sacrifices to this end.

I used to find it extremely patronising when people said: “You don’t have kids, do you?” as though you couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be a parent, and were therefore not entitled to have an opinion on the subject. Today, I realise that to some degree, they were right, even if they did need a few lessons in the art of diplomacy.

In the wake of some terrible news stories regarding the loss of children (the Belgian coach crash and the murder of Jewish schoolchildren in France being just two), I find that I react to these quite differently as a parent. I always greeted such dreadful news with sadness for a life lost prematurely; these days, my first thoughts are for the parents left with a gaping hole, future hopes dashed, waiting helplessly at the end of a school day for footsteps that will no longer come. Just thinking about it brings a lump to my throat, yet I know this barely touches the enormity of such grief. My biggest fear used to be dying; now, it’s not seeing my daughter grow up, for whatever reason.

So I’d like to thank my mum for being there – and my gran, whose house was like my own while I was growing up. I wish they lived closer, so they could enjoy their (great) granddaughter more. In contrast, OH’s parents live right next door, and offer so much support. In them, I can see much truth in the commonly held idea that, less harried by other pressures in life, grandparents have more time and patience to spend with little ones.

And I’d like to celebrate all parents everywhere because, for the most part, we’re doing a grand job. Cheers.

Bodmin Jail is an imposing edifice – all brown brick and austere architecture, its purpose… In recent years, it has gained a new identity as a social venue, with a popular bar and restaurant.

But diners were left open-mouthed by some of the strange creatures passing through the entrance on Saturday afternoon. Nymphs, warriors and other brightly coloured beings freely roamed the grounds during the BodyFactory contest, in which models served as living canvases for spectacular full body art. The previous weekend, my tastebuds had gone into overdrive when I judged the World Pasty Championships; this time, my eyes were assailed by a riot of colour, and the results of some fertile imaginations.

The event was organised by Nicola Shilson of Lucid Arts, who previously appeared in my blog when she painted an oriental tiger on my pregnancy bump (Art in the Round). Nic aimed to make the BodyFactory a no-holds-barred event. “There are body painting competitions all over the world, but they all have rules and regulations regarding the amount of prosthetics artists can use, or how many media they can work with,” she said. “The concept of the Body Factory was to host an event without those restrictions. There was no theme today, giving painters complete creative freedom.”

All models were partially dressed, with men in briefs and women wearing thongs and cloth or silicone nipple shields to provide the optimum painting surface. I wandered the room, admiring entries and chatting to participants. Painter Liz Bycett had travelled from Kent to attend the event, and was painting a design based on a Chinese water dragon. “I’ve been painting for 22 years, and I do a lot of commercial work to clients’ briefs, so it’s nice to do something for myself for a change,” she said.

Organiser Nicola Shilson with model Laurence

All had had six hours to create their design. Many appeared to be fans of fantasy gothic horror; there were evident references to the likes of Twilight and Xena Warrior Princess. Model Laurence had been painted orange with a big bloody slash across his chest, a machine gun in hand. I wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night in Bodmin.

Jenny Marquis, from Cornwall, had spent weeks making her own prosthetics to produce Hellrider, aka model Matt Tibbles. Matt had some alarming metallic objects protruding from his face and body. Head and torso painted bright red and silver, I doubt that his mother would have recognised him. In fact, I doubt

Matt Tibbles, aka Hellrider.

he’d have recognised himself in a mirror. “He’s been attacked, he’s very angry and he’s out for revenge. This,” said Jenny, wielding a ninja-style knife, “will go in his back.” Nice. Outside, a Harley Davidson awaited to complete Jenny’s picture.

Hair extensions, false nails, glitter tattoos – seemingly, anything went. I would chat, move on, turn round and discover that a design had changed dramatically with the addition of a helmet, wings, brickwork, ridiculously high heels. It was quite surreal – in the corner, a 14^th century warrior painted woad blue sat drinking a cup of milky tea.

Through the keyhole - model Jimmy Monroe, painted by Zoe Thornbury-Philips

Model Jimmy Monroe made a striking figure. Inspired by the jail itself, painter Zoe Thornbury Phillips, from Hertfordshire, had covered his arms and legs with zebra stripes to resemble a prison uniform, his chest became a keyhole peering through to lush landscapes. Upon his head, Jimmy wore a hat covered with keys; on his feet, staggeringly high heels (his own). “I thought they’d add a bit of height,” he said. For a chap already six foot tall and gangly, they certainly did. A male glamour model, Jimmy certainly knew how to strike a pose.

A peacock lady with the most detailed depiction of a bird on her back, her head adorned with feathers; and a Spanish flamenco dancer, top half painted to resemble a dress – from a distance, you would have thought it was real fabric.

It was time to judge, so I repaired upstairs with Nicola and fellow judge Michelle McCoon, lecturer in make-up at Truro College. With so much creativity on show, it was a tough job.

THE WINNER, Body Factory 2012

BodyFactory Body Painter of the Year was named as Cat Finlayson from Norfolk, who took her inspiration from the jail’s gruesome past by painting her model to represent the first woman to be hanged over an eight-foot drop in Bodmin Jail, complete with a rope painted around her neck. Impressive as it was, this was a little gruesome for my taste, truth be told; but it was well researched, and I was pleased to see a painter taking inspiration from the Cornish location. Nic and Michelle were both convinced of the detail involved. They were the experts, so I was happy to be outvoted.

Perhaps my favourite came second – Juliet Eve, from Hertfordshire, created a beautiful stained glass window design using glitter paint, complete with brickwork on the limbs and a design on the back taken on the day from the jail’s leaded windows (pictured below).

In third place were Zoe and Jimmy. We agonised a little over whether Jimmy’s presence detracted from the painting; then agreed that on the contrary, it enhanced it – the perfect synergy between model and painter.

As I returned home, models and painters toured the jail buildings for photo opportunities. Plans are already afoot for BodyFactory 2013 – I can’t wait.

www.lucid-arts.co.uk/bodyfactory

Graham Cornish from Ginsters of Cornwall. The pasty making champion of the world

There were whoops and cheers as the winners of the first World Pasty Championships were announced on Saturday. There was clearly some pride to be had in being confirmed the king (or queen) or Cornwall’s national dish, and the atmosphere was palpable.

But the winner of both professional categories accepted his trophies in a quieter, more diffident fashion. The appropriately named Graham Cornish had no retinue of noisy supporters, and was extremely modest in his triumph. Asked for his secret, he replied, simply: “Use the freshest local ingredients.” Was he pleased to score the double? “I feel delighted and humble. But then,” he added, “I’ve been doing this a long time.”

Launceston man Graham works at Ginsters, perhapsCornwall’s best known pasty producers. The irony was not lost on the gathered crowds, nor on the Twittersphere; Ginsters’ plastic wrapped wares, commonly purchased in petrol stations and motorway services, are not generally mentioned in the same breath as those Mother used to make. Graham’s success shows that they must be doing something right.

I was honoured to be asked to join the judging panel at this inaugural event, which was dreamed up by David Rowe at the Eden Project following the protected status granted to the Cornish pasty last year. Dave Meneer (formerly of Eden and Fifteen Cornwall)was head judge, his taste buds reserved in case of a tie. The rest of us (23 judges) had the arduous task of tasting 102 pasties over five hours. There were moments when I wondered whether I would want to see another pasty, ever again.

We were ushered into the staff area behind the Bakery (Eden’s revamped restaurant), and the rules were explained. A true Cornish pasty should be D shaped, with a clear crimp to the side (never across the top); the filling should comprise beef, swede, potato and onion (no peas, carrots or other intruders); and, of course, it should be made in the county. All entries to the Cornish pasty categories, amateur and professional, should abide by these laws; all others would enter the Open Savoury categories.

We judged in pairs. My partner in crime was Billy Moore, erstwhile landlord (30 years’ service) of the Fountain Inn in Mevagissey. Normally on Saturdays, Billy makes his own pasties, to be consumed by punters over a pint. His magic ingredient: “A sprinkle of suet instead of the knob of butter, to get the juices running. And occasionally, a bit of parsley.”

The best pasty he’s ever tasted? “Ask any Cornishman, and he’ll say it’s his mother’s.” He wasn’t wrong there. I asked several Cornishmen (and a few women), and the answer was always the same (even my mother-in-law, whose mother was from Lancashire).

The pasties came out, starting with the Cornish Pasty amateur class. We tried three. First, we judged the look – was it golden, with an even glaze and a good crimp? Then we cut each in half, and a bit of pastry was tweaked and tested. Finally, the filling – was the distribution even, were there any unnecessary ingredients and, of course, how did it taste?

It was a disappointing trio. All had indistinct crimps, and none of the chefs appeared to be acquainted with salt or pepper. “Good seasoning is essential, and it has to be done before cooking – you can’t add it afterwards,” said Billy. The third entry also had a chronic pastry problem – it fell apart when I picked it up. As a hand-held meal for a hungry miner, a weak pastry and no crimp (essentially a handle, which would have been thrown away for the “knockers”) would have spelt disaster. We gave this poor soul our lowest mark – 24 out of 100.

Onto the professionals, who clearly knew their condiments and crimps better, as one might expect. They scored in the late 60s, early 70s – respectable, but could do better in my opinion.

It was interesting to hear the different judging techniques. Billy and I were quite quick to decide what we did and didn’t like, but the room was buzzing with serious discussion. There was heated debate about whether you could tell the difference between butchers’ and bakers’ pasties. “I have no objection to butchers making pasties,” opined Clive Williams, president of the Master Bakers Association, “…as long as they appreciate that they won’t be as good as those made by bakers.” Enough said.

There was a break for lunch – strictly non-pasty related – and an opportunity to meet other judges. There were fellow journalists, farmers, bakers, food and safety officers and WI members. To my right was Heligan baker Mandy Johns, who had recreated the Heligan Heritage Pasty from an 18^th century recipe (principal ingredient – venison). Mebyon Kernow councillor Matt Luke, from nearby Trethurgy, was resplendent in Cornish tartan.

Prof David Balzarini had travelled all the way from Michigan USA. “I asked if it was something a tourist might find interesting; the next thing I knew, I was a judge,” he said. Like Cornwall, Michiganhas its own mining heritage, and welcomed many Cousin Jacks when the Cornish industry began to flag at the turn of the 20^th century.

After lunch, the Open Savoury pasties began rolling out. I was looking forward to this; I’m no purist, and like to vary my fillings. Beef and stilton is a particular favourite; pork and apple, cheese, tomato and basil – sacrilege to some, music to my ears. IT manager, pasty enthusiast and Cornishman Julian Holmes agreed: “I make my own pasties and know what the traditional ones should be like, so this is something different.”

Some were weird, some were wonderful; some were both. Suddenly, the judges were circulating, keen to try other pasties. Chicken curry with banana and coconut; seafood; buffalo chicken with chilli. The squirrel pasty drew a fair bit of attention, and we were divided into two camps; those who would, and those who definitely wouldn’t. I would, and did. Judges Clive and Colin scored it highly; in fact, it came second in its class to wild rabbit with cider and leek. Both were pretty tasty.

Billy and I had the “Bonfire pasty”, featuruing butternut squash, bacon and sage. Too  much sage for Billy; not enough bacon for me. But I loved the sweetness of the squash. Our final pasty was the best of the day: steak and Cornish Blue cheese. “A little beauty,” wrote Billy of its looks, giving its crimp 18 out of 20. At 87 out of 100, it scored our highest mark – and just when I thought I couldn’t face another morsel, it had me coming back for more.

By now, I was feeling quite lardy. The scores were in, and dave Meneer finally got to taste something. The winners were announced.

In the pro category, aChicago company came third with its veggie pasty, which had been Fed-Exed in. Perhaps this was a more effective method than that of the Cornish born, Pennsylvania resident who had flown in and cooked his on Cornish soil, presumably with jetlag; it wasn’t placed.

In second place in both pro classes was Padstow’s Chough Bakery, recently seen on BBC Two when it was visited by Alex Polizzi. Strong-minded mum Elaine was keen to retire but loath to hand over the business; daughter Louisa was dying to take on the mantle. She’s clearly ready; it was her steak and Cornish Blue pasty that had me in raptures, so I was thrilled.

But the top Cornish pasty was, well, the Cornish pasty, Graham topped the charts not only with his traditional, but also with his smoked fish number using ingredients from Tregida Smokehouse. Ginsters are lucky to have him, and I look forward to hearing his opinions on what makes a good pasty. “I’ve got plenty,” he told me. I can’t wait.

Meanwhile, Hugh’s Hungry Boys (Sun, 7pm) reach the end of their journey from Rover Cottage to Land’s End this weekend. They have travelled on a milk float (max speed: 40mph), and are aiming not to spend any money en route, cadging, bartering and foraging everything they need. See them exploring Apsaragus Island off Kynance Cove this Sunday.

Once that’s finished, turn over to ITV1 for Toughest Place to Be… A Fisherman. Cornishman Andy Giles leaves familiar waters to ply his trade in Sierra Leone, sleeping in mud huts and experiencing the dangers of fishing in seas where humble fishermen scraping a living compete with unscrupulous foreign trawlers who will break the rules to make more cash.

Moustachioed Dick Strawbridge and son James, eco-warriors from Tywardreath, are travelling round Britain’s coast in search of top nosh in The Hungry Sailors (ITV1, daily, 4pm). They’ve already done Cornwall, and have reached Kent now, picking winkles in Whitstable.

On Tuesday, hotelier and businesswoman Alex Polizzi (whose mother, Olga, runs the Hotel Tresanton in St Mawes) attempts to turn around the fortunes of Padstow’s family-run Chough Bakery (The Fixer, BBC2, 8pm).

Further ahead, on Friday, February 24, look out for John Craven and Jules Hudson visiting Godolphin House in Britain’s Heritage Heroes (BBC2, 6.30pm).

Then there is a raft of faces, celebrities held dear because they live in Cornwall: Jenny Agutter on Call the Midwife (Suns, BBC1, 8pm) and Jean Shrimpton, recently profiled in BBC4′s We’ll Take Manhattan.

It doesn’t seem long ago that Martin Clunes’ Doc Martin walked off grumpily into the sunset, hand in hand with his beloved Louisa. And we occasionally bump into our old friend Wycliffe on ITV3.

It all goes to show how much Cornwall inspires us all – its landscapes and its traditions, the warmth of its people. These programmes have a real appeal for those who would like to visit or live here, and fill those of us who already do with a sense of pride. That said, I find that life gets in the way of watching so much TV, so I’m grateful that I can just step out of my front door to enjoy it for myself.