My problem with soup is that it smells like soup - and so does every establishment that serves it - and anyone that eats it. But soup is doing better than all of us; it’s thriving internationally, like corporate greed and war. Only yesterday my friend was out with a client, and buoyed by her own excellent soup-eating techniques (push the spoon away from you, don’t drip on chin, don’t lick out bowl) boldly ordered the carrot and coriander. She was enjoying her lunch until her client started caressing his recently fitted colostomy bag. Each time he pressed down on his unfamiliar pouch, its juices swilled about. He remained oblivious to the impact this noxious puddle was having on her appetite, and for that I thank him. He has put her off soup for the foreseeable future. At the same time I feel sad that she didn’t mention the noise and save him from himself. Why do we struggle to let someone know that they make us sick? My colleague can’t stop stroking her stomach, my neighbour has been sniffing since 2011, and my friend blames her impressive flatulence on her husband even when he’s out. But do I say anything? Of course not. We only let the people we really, deeply love know exactly what we hate about them - and that is why long-term relationships are as important as they are difficult to sustain.