ACCORDING to a report released this week we should all be taking photos of our food.

It will ensure we eat healthier, the US research suggests, because a visual record makes you think more about what you’re putting on your plate.

The camera acts as an eye, staring at your roast dinner with unblinking approval or dismay depending on the ratio of veg to roast potatoes.

It’s a strange idea to put yourself under personal surveillance.

As an adult, it is the equivalent of a parent’s gaze. Their voices saying: “For goodness sake, put that mayonnaise down.”

At home, my family still joke about JamSandwichGate - a scandal between me and my mum when I was 16.

Back then, I had a job at Superdrug. I sold Lucozade to hangover victims, nail varnish to groups of young girls, and pregnancy tests to women either brimming with excitement or white with fear.

Every day, like Paddington Bear, I would bring my sandwiches. He had marmalade; I had jam. I was a creature of low ambition.

When my mum found out about my lunchtime habit, she told me off. A comment along the lines of: ‘You can’t just put jam in your sandwich,’ was made. Over time, this has been exaggerated to: “Jam is common, shame on you.”

Sugary condiments are now a guilty pleasure.

There’s no hope for me. I cook for myself so I am subject to all kinds of whims, currently including Marmite and cappuccino. Any part of me which requires calcium and vitamin B is doing great; the rest of me is doomed.

Only other people can save me. The speed at which I tidy my room when I have friends coming round can only be captured by NASA scientists. The meals I make are more extravagant. I walk around in appropriate clothing combinations.

Generally I think human creatures survive better in groups.

Especially as they can turn to mates and say: “Do you think that extra portion of chips was a step to far?”

And their mates can lay there, on the sofa, and say: “No.”