This fanciful notion was given short shrift at book group, where the talk was of Leibnizian optimism, Bildungsromans, and the symbolism of gardens. I struggled to keep up, having dropped off to sleep on the train yesterday, which meant I arrived this evening with the book half-unread (or as Pangloss might look at it, half-read).

My main contribution to proceedings came with the purchase of a round of drinks and a packet of honey-roasted peanuts. The bar was completely out of pistachios AND wasabi peas. If this is the best of all possible worlds, what then are the others?

Friday February 23rd

This is the second Friday in a row that the Man at Number 29 has failed even to attempt to put his refuse sacks out. He has either become stoically resigned to his fate (a form of predustbination, perhaps), or he’s trapped inside his house, held hostage by his own bin bags.

I, though, had other domestic chores on my mind – a bathroom to clean, cat hair to hoover up, a recipe to seek and some books to refile in ISBN order (those recent bookshop trips had taken their toll). Ordinarily, these tasks would be prime procrastination territory but I need my house to look its best because . . . Dylan is coming to stay tomorrow!

Stuart is taking Sophie away for the weekend on some sordid romantic tryst, no doubt involving oak timbers, complimentary pink champagne and spa foot treatments, possibly for the removal of unsightly corns and verrucas. With some reluctance, Dylan has been entrusted to my care.

Whistling vigorously, I went about my jobs and imagined him reporting back snippets of his weekend to Sophie:

‘Dad cooked this amazing dinner last night.’

‘I haven’t laughed so much in ages!’

‘Yeah, he’s sorted. He just seems so . . . at peace with himself and the world, somehow.’

‘Dad’s vegan now, you know.’

The cat noticed me smiling to myself. She gave me one of her worried looks in response.

Saturday February 24th

Do not go, lentil, into that good pie

Do not go, lentil, into that good pie

Lest it should burn not bake upon the tray,

Rage, rage against the oven turned too high.

The soybeans and chickpeas may also die

For the pulses quicken upon their way,

Do not go, lentil, into that good pie.

Its pastry turns crisp and as black as night

And the legumes scar and darken to grey,

Rage, rage against the oven turned too high.

When comes my turn in the furnace to lie,

Grieve not my remains of charcoal and clay,

Do not go, lentil, into that good pie.

Do not go, lentil, into that good pie.

Rage, rage against the oven turned too high.

As I was throwing the blackened remains of my lentil cottage pie into the bin, Dylan told me that I needed to devise some better coping strategies to help me deal with adversity.