Eva Bradley: I've had a bellyful of Nigella's nosh

Obsessions can take many forms - some people wash their hands repeatedly, others lust over celebrities they'll never meet, I collect high heels I'll never wear.
Obsessions by definition are preoccupations with something that is beyond what most of the great unwashed would consider normal.
What makes them acceptable in polite society is that we keep them to ourselves.
Only my boyfriend is forced to live with the constant and intrusive presence of patent leather in every cupboard and drawer.
Only you know what fetishes and interests would unsettle your boss and that's why you opt to keep them private.
So why can't foodies do the same and get out of my TV Guide listings?
On Tuesday night as I grazed through the plethora of television shows with my Sky remote, I was shocked and appalled to discover at that precise moment, the word "kitchen" featured in the title of three programmes simultaneously.
And not just on the obscure little filler channels that Sky broadcasts in order to lure in punters wowed by quantity rather than quality.
Food shows had spread across pay and free-to-air TV like campylobacter on uncooked chicken and, frankly, it was making me queasy.
Now, I don't have a problem with food per se, I eat it and enjoy it as much as the next guy (maybe more, as the bathroom scales will confirm).
What I do object to is having it force-fed to me every time I turn on the television, and in such a way that it makes me feel utterly inadequate for not serving my sausage and mash with foie gras and grated truffle.
This week, home alone while my boyfriend worked late shift, I had nachos three times and spaghetti on toast twice.
I didn't serve either with a side of organic, slow-roasted pretension nor was there a garnish of lightly toasted affectation drizzled in virgin olive oil.
It was delicious.
But my appetite was somewhat spoiled by sitting down with my quick, honest grub on my lap each night to see a giddy mix of celebrity chefs each trying to out-swear, out-cook and generally out-perform each other.
On channels where no celebrities were to be seen, they had would-be celebrities on Masterchef, Hell's Kitchen and their ilk all hungry for fame, if not food.
Clearly the rash of cooking shows is being generated through consumer demand, but as someone who prefers to eat food rather than watch it, I am left with one curiously puzzling question: Why?
I'm sure I am not the only working woman who dashes into the supermarket at the end of the day in an impatient bid to find something for dinner that is two parts quick to one part edible.
The sheer volume of instant meals and ready-made sauces proves not all of us want to or can be a Nigella Lawson.
So why do she and her mate Jamie dominate prime time?
Frankly, it is nothing short of porn. Food porn.
And just as we won't be getting our hands on the tight little bottoms and ample big bosoms broadcast over the naughty channels, neither will we be slaughtering our own pigs or brewing our own elderflower wine like Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall from River Cottage.
We watch and want what we can't have, while all of us sit there with our macaroni cheese. Right?
Well, that's the way I like to imagine it, because it doesn't matter how many celebrity chefs are cooking them, there sure as hell won't be any duck a l'orange or p�eacute; en croute coming out of my kitchen any time soon.
Amen to that.
Eva Bradley is an award-winning columnist.