Some fishy business going on in the letter columns. Our esteemed correspondent Y, whom U all know - 'M who writes In Time's Eye - has come in for some criticism for his views on fish conservation. A writer noted that Y ended his Arctic char fish Article - beg pardon, article - by saying it deserved "special protection", yet began the article by inviting us all to eat one: "That's protection for you", concludes the writer. A similar row is brewing - in a large cauldron of very hot water - over the treatment of lobsters. A gentleman who is associated with the campaign to prevent cruelty to animals expressed horror at the practice of dispatching lobsters by means of boiling them alive, and asks that restaurateurs should instead electrocute them. (He even suggests the voltage). Another letter-writer responded to this suggestion - "surprised and shocked" - and said he was "afraid that the only way to avoid cruelty to lobsters. . .is simply to stop eating lobsters." There is much confusion here. The debate over the best way to do in a lobster has been raging for many years - is it more humane to use the electric chair, lethal injection, shooting, stoning, garrotting, drowning or hanging? Is the last-minute appeal more cruel than kind? The only lobsters who could give definitive answers are unfortunately dead. There is a popular notion that the gourmet gets more enjoyment from his lobster if he knows it has been painlessly put to sleep after a session with a lobster pastor, a conversion to the true lobster faith, an apology for any lobster crimes committed, a final meal and a brief but heartfelt prayer forgiving his executioners. However, not one of the many gourmets, gourmands and epicures known to me fits this image: it is of absolutely no consequence to any of them how their food has met its fate, though they are usually deeply interested in its preparation.

At the same time one appreciates there are people who regard lobsters as sentient beings with high intelligence, complicated emotional lives, a superior moral system, warm family relationships, first-class hygiene, a deep-felt sense of community, a social conscience, a need for kinship, a respect for the work ethic and an immortal soul. Given all that, lobsters can surely rise above their fate on a plate.

But this notion that there is necessarily a conflict between protecting a species and simultaneously eating it has to be addressed (hear me now, notion).

I am not talking of culling, or defending its proponents. Strictly speaking (the only proper way of speaking), a cull should involve killing off the weaker, inferior or otherwise unsuitable members of a particular animal group. But in reality, for reasons of pride and simple hunger, hunters of all kinds are out to shoot, hook, snare or otherwise entrap and dispose of the very finest members of the group. And quite right too: only in this way can other members of the briefly depleted species be encouraged to fight for the newly-vacated prime place in the group. Eating them encourages them and their personal development. Meanwhile, as political correctness becomes more entrenched in various cultural fields, the food and drink department is far from immune, and gourmets themselves have now become a threatened species. Even in their favourite restaurants - even in Ireland - the dread symbol "H" has begun to make its grotesque appearance on menus. Appended to the various food selections, the letter H indicates a supposedly "healthy" option. It takes the high moral ground on your menu, even asserting superiority over the harmless if wishywashy V for vegetarian choice. Choose H, and your steak - if it's on offer at all - will be plain-grilled (and perhaps decorated with one dead organic mushroom) rather than fabulously flambeed with lashings of brandy. Your spuds will be steamed, not deep-fried. You will be force-fed weird stringy vegetables from the Himalayan foothills instead of good old-fashioned Irish cheese cauliflower and buttered carrots. Your dessert will be bone-dry crackers rather than chocolate mousse.

But don't worry: your glass of still water will be refilled regularly.

Meanwhile your companions, having consumed all manner of glorious foodstuffs deemed unworthy of the H option, and seven bottles of a powerful Hungarian red (the only decent H option), seem for some odd reason to be brimming with good cheer, though supposedly in mortal danger of death. They are all for continuing the party into the afternoon.

You, however, assuredly healthy, choose to go home, and wonder why you feel depressed. Perhaps they should rename the particular food selection the "D" option.