MY dad has something in common with Sir Rod Stewart. He’s not an ageing rock star, although at 80, he certainly qualifies as the former.

Neither has he had three marriages and dated a bevvy of blonde beauties. My mum, a brunette whom he wed aged 22 and is still happily living with today, would have none of that.

What he and Rod share is their incompetence in the kitchen.

The superstar admitted that he has never cooked a meal in his life and can’t even boil an egg.

“I’ve made a bit of toast and a cup of tea in the afternoon, but other than that, I’ve done nothing. Shameful. Shame on you, Stewart!” he told

Rolling Stone magazine.

“I cannot cook to save me life. The last time I tried to make a boiled egg, I had about 20 pans and things out of the cupboard. What a mess. Nothing to be proud of.”

Rod has a private chef who cooks for him three times a week. Otherwise, wife Penny rustles up his meals for him, though she said in 2016 that Rod likes to have a restaurant quality meal in the evenings.

My dad isn’t quite that bad - he can, I am certain, boil an egg. Although whether he would know how to time it to runny perfection I’m not so sure.

Like Rod, my dad has never needed to cook. He also has a private chef: my mum stepped into that role in 1960 and continues to this day to produce amazing meals that could not be bettered even by Michelin-starred chefs.

I remember once, in my late teens, when my mum had a spell in hospital. My dad and I attempted Sunday lunch. It was a disaster. Neither of us had a clue how to make gravy. Dad had absolutely no idea, and I was convinced it was something to with pouring gravy salt into the meat juice. Our combined attempt led to the same sort of “mess” created by Rod in his egg-boiling effort.

It’s odd that I have not inherited at least a fraction of my mum’s passion for cooking. Having been raised in a former village bakehouse, my childhood was filled with smells of home cooking. Delicious main courses of hearty stews, steak and kidney pies and other traditional classics were always followed by mouthwatering pies and cakes.

My mum was constantly baking and would probably have wiped the floor with other contestants had the Great British Bake Off been around then.

But I have never been able to muster up the same enthusiasm. At 57, I stilI haven’t progressed beyond the student “spag bol” stage.

Like most people, I can follow a recipe, but creating a meal I haven’t cooked before from scratch takes me hours, and, frankly, I can’t be bothered.

Thankfully, I married a man who loves cooking. In contrast to my dad, my husband can cook. Almost every night, he will lock himself away in the kitchen, listening to Radio 4, and knock up something tasty, while I sit working or watching TV.

In his youth, Rod Stewart clearly had culinary satisfaction in mind when moving in with girlfriends.

“In the Seventies, it was a different era,” he says. “We used to have girlfriends we’d shack up with. And then you’d sort of get fed up with them and they’d leave, or you’d kick ’em out,” he says. “…But then you realise: ‘Who’s gonna cook me dinner? Who’s gonna cook me breakfast?’”

I can see where he’s coming from. It’s an utterly terrifying prospect, but were my husband to leave me, I too would face that dilemma.