Fire’s on. TV’s on. Feet are up on the coffee table. The poor girl in ‘Don’t tell the Bride’ is going to hate what he’s preparing for her.

And even if I am loving this moment there are still two things missing.

The family. Hubby’s marathoning. Big daughter is in her tiny flat, in her university city, studying, I think. And her wee blister is at her boyfriend’s parents’ home for lunch, undoubtedly showing them how lovely and well brought up she is.

So there’s only me and the cats at home. Weird.

Even weirder was my singleton’s Sunday lunch. This is usually a big affair à la française, with a starter, then painstakingly prepared main course, wide variety of cheeses, and an amazingly special dessert. The girls rush from wherever they may have been partying the night before to be here on time. We use the fancy tablecloth with the fancy matching napkins. We sit for ages around the table, chatting and eating and drinking wine. Our Sunday lunch is sacré.

Not today, my friends. Pizza and sweets. That was it. Oh, I nearly forgot the hummus spooned directly from the tub into my mouth as I stood waiting for the oven to heat up.

I’m still scoffing the sweets as I type. Silly, childish, jellified things, hand-picked by the torn-face boulangère at the end of the street who I imagine assumed they were for my children. Or did she think grandchildren? Bitch.

But you know what? I quite enjoyed it. I wouldn’t want it every week. I’m feeling a bit stuffed with saturated fat and highly refined sugar. And I missed the chat from the bunch. But frankly, getting the Sunday lunch shift off now and again is quite a sweet treat.

Yummy, yummy in my tummy. Aren’t these the cutest little things? That penguin was delicious.