"Gala dinner or shall we eat in front of the box?" my husband asked as I crawled into the kitchen after getting our two tired and cranky children into bed.

"Oh, the box," I said. I had no energy to make civilised conversation at the dinner table, even if it was one of my husband's few evenings off from his antisocial work pattern.

Besides, it was a Monday night and Mondays have been pretty good telly-wise recently, what with the return of Mastermind and the professionals taking part in University Challenge, hosted by Jeremy Paxman.

"There's a programme I'd really like to see," said my husband, dishing out the chicken with rice and grilled peppers. It's about some Japanese monks who mummified themselves."

I forget my husband's viewing preferences are often radically different to mine. Although we both like a decent film or a rollicking costume drama, he and he alone enjoys programmes about cars, famous battles and the weird and the wonderful.

I wasn't interested in self-mummification, especially not while eating my supper, but I thought I'd be generous and sacrifice my half-hour with Mr Paxman.

"We'll turn over if it's no good," added my husband.

"No, no. You don't get a chance to watch the telly much. And I might find it interesting."

So we sat down, our dinners on our laps, and watched as the narrator began describing how a bunch of Buddhists attempted to reach a state of extreme spiritual enlightenment.

"It's incredible," said my husband, as the programme showed 200-year-old human remains covered in skin with the internal organs still present.

"That skin looks a bit like my peppers," I said, pushing the offending pieces of food aside.

The narrator continued, describing how the flesh of a dead body usually putrefies because of the bacteria inside it and how flies lay eggs and maggots crawl out. The script was accompanied by graphic film footage.

"Oh, yuk!" I said, looking at my maggot-like rice and feeling a little queasy. "I'm not sure I can watch this."

Unwilling to leave the comfort of the sofa, however, I resorted to closing my eyes, sticking my fingers in my ears and singing "La, la, la" very loudly.

"Shut up," shouted my husband. "I can't hear what he's saying."

"La, la, la."

"ALL RIGHT, YOU CAN STOP NOW."

I opened my eyes and removed my fingers. The narrator had moved on to describe how these monks had starved themselves to eliminate their body fat.

"Doesn't it make you feel ill?" I asked.

"It's interesting."

"Yeah, but not when I'm eating," I said. "I've gone completely off my dinner."

"Hand it over, then."

I gave my husband my plate and he scooped up my rice while I debated whether or not to pour myself more wine.

I had just topped up my glass when the narrator revealed the final stage of self-mummification - drinking a solution of arsenic that would poison the Buddhists and, essentially, pickle their bodies for eternity.

"What a way to go," said my husband, decanting the contents of my glass into his. "By the way, what do you fancy for dessert?"

"Jeremy Paxman, please."