‘Can we lure you over for Ottolenghi ragu / cuppa tea / ikea biscuit tomorrow?’ I text a friend. It is the strange, sludgy bit of the Christmas break, where days only exist by their numbers - 29th, 30th, 2nd - and not their names, and we are strangely busy and also not at the same time. I can’t remember when I last had a normal Wednesday. Time is like that Morrissey song, where every day is like Sunday, only with more candles and general wellbeing.
She laughs at the ikea biscuit, which is fine. She is uninitiated. I attempt an explanation: ‘The ikea biscuits are truly absolute crack’.