Dinner was going well. The sourdough bread hadn't prompted anyone to complain of the smell of catsick; the focaccia had absorbed all the olive oil I couldn't fit in the cupboard; the salad and the mussels were accepted as 'delicious'; and the wine bottles were mostly empty. Time for the flourish: the richness of a Christmas syllabub with walnut shortbreads.

I had taken a few liberties with the recipe: the walnut shortbread called for two packs of butter and so I halved the quantity - and still ended up with a tray full of thick biscuits. And then, when I was adding the cream to the fruit and spices infused with alcohol, I realised that my huge carton of double cream was half the size required by the recipe. So I was only making half the quantity ... still, a little, light burst of sugary sweetness to end the meal - yes, that would be acceptable. If people were still hungry, I could get out the cheese and biscuits.

Maybe I shouldn't have had so much wine before I started to serve the syllabub. Maybe then I would have noticed.

I started spooning the meagre quantity of syllabub into individual bowls and I didn't seem to be making much impression in the amount I made. The I dunked two shortbread biscuits into each bowl and the tray still seemed full.

People could always come back for more, I thought.

After a few minutes at the table, I got the distinct impression that people were struggling. Conversation had died. There was an embarrassed silence around the room. Nobody had eaten more than a quarter of their syllabub; and everyone had eaten enough.

'Ha!' I improvised. 'I wondered when you would all have had enough!' Slight attempts at laughter around the table. I finished it off: 'Do, please, stop when you want. This is far too much. Far, far, too much.'

The next day I checked the recipe. If I'd made double the quantity, it was supposed to feed 4-6 people. Maybe that was 46 people.

The recipe came from the Hairy Bikers.

I won't use another recipe from fat people.