Having been forced outside by the drivel that was It’s A Royal Cock-Up on the BBC, I am able to swap jubilee war stories when we gather in the office on Wednesday - and not of the limp bunting, upside down Union Jacks, midges round the bonfire, kind. Karoline (with a K) claims she was in the flotilla (presumably she was the one in the whale costume) and was disappointed not to see any of us backstage at the concert or in St Paul’s. Well that’s because I was talking to neighbours in north London - an entirely new experience.

It turns out that real people aren’t quite as ghastly as everyone says, at least not in Hampstead. Of course that may change as Morrisons marches its illiterate, apostrophe-less way south, dragging northerners who think they love ‘fresh food’ in its wake.

For the time being, though, we are all, including a couple of rather fetching bankers, infused with bonhomie and like-minded goodwill. One of them tells me about his plans to get PGI accreditation for an entire Hampstead dinner party, including the argument in the kitchen afterwards, which makes me giggle alluringly.

Turkey steaks sizzle on the barbie. Very on-trend as sales are up 20%, though not for all the waffly non-reasons spouted by the Turkey Propaganda Board. No, turkey is more popular than ever because it is cheap, very cheap. Not this turkey, obviously, which must have been hand-reared in Norfolk by turkey-maids, judging by the contribution requested. So we tuck in to get our money’s worth, hit the Bolly and sing for Britain.

All is not quite as good once the booze wears off. Alas, the bankers were gay, the turkey was undercooked and Karoline still acts like the queen.