There is something I love about Sundays, and Sunday afternoons especially. I was reflecting on this yesterday: there is something I’ve always loved about that time of the week. It was on Sunday afternoons that dad used to drive us home from visiting my grandparents in London, nodding off in the car; it was on Sunday afternoons that we used to drive home after dropping my brother off in oxford at the beginning of every term. As a child, Sunday afternoons represented the last bit of thee weekend before school the next day; later they were about chilling out at home before a week at university, relishing my mum’s cooking, feeling her Sunday roast settle in my stomach. Sunday afternoons and evenings were when the best programmes were on tv: Michael Palin and David Attenborough documentaries, and later Top gear. I used to watch them in my pyjamas after my weekly bath.

These days, Sunday afternoons may be slightly different, but yesterday I noticed I still get the same feeling of warmth and homeliness. Now they’re about listening to Lyn compose in her studio; they’re about settling down with a book on the sofa, or mucking around on the internet. Yet there is the same old feeling of security, of home and family, I always noticed. The feeling you get when you know you have a hectic week ahead of you, so you relish being at home with the people you love.

And Sunday afternoons are still when the best telly is on.