Earlier today I came to the conclusion that, of any given time throughout the week, I like Sunday afternoons the best. Throughout my life, Sunday afternoons have been the most homely and warm: it was always a Sunday afternoon when my parents drove us home after visiting my grandparents in London, or, later, dropping mark off every term in oxford. It was on Sunday afternoons that I used to settle down before going back to university on Monday morning; a time to watch Time team, David Attenborough, or Michael Palin – the three best things on television.

I was thinking about this earlier. It occurred to me that, time being time, the Sunday afternoons of my past can never be revisited, although their memory remains. I’ll probably never again drive home with my parents after visiting my grandmother, get fed a sandwich by mum and then settle down to watch Tony Robinson drone on about the past. Yet the spirit of Sunday afternoons remains.

We were just up in London, sorting out bits and peices. We decided to get a quick drink in a pub, just off Leicester square. I was sitting by the fire, listening to the live music, when it occurred to me how good life was. It was Sunday afternoon: maybe not like the Sunday afternoons of the past, of long sleepy car rides and good TV to look forward to; but Sunday afternoons with Lyn, as great as they ever were – exploring this great city, and then coming home to eat dinner, snuggle, and look forward to the week ahead.