‘It’s so good to see you!’ I say to Sophie, who looks like she’s casually stepped off the cover of Vogue magazine in her cropped white trousers, nautical T-shirt and wide-brimmed straw hat. Harry looks like he’s just got out of bed with scruffy hair, jeans and wrinkled shirt, which is nothing unusual, but it’s why we all love him so much. As usual, he carries a Yorkie dog under each arm – no matter how many times I meet Milo and Jess, I don’t think I’ll ever know how to tell the difference.

‘Get the wine open asap,’ says Sophie, unloading her bag of goodies. ‘I’ve had the week from hell and I need alcohol!’

Jack comes to her rescue, handing her a large glass of chilled Pinot from the fridge, and we make our way outside into the evening sunshine.

We opted for a change of plan, thinking the weather was too fine to sit in a stuffy restaurant, so we’re having dinner al fresco at our place, our first time firing up the barbecue since we moved in six weeks ago.

‘So, how’s the new job going?’ Harry asks me when we’re settled on the decking, looking out onto nothing except miles of greenery and a pale blue sky.

Sophie wasn’t joking when she mentioned her husband was growing a beard. Its ginger tone gives him a very royal look (I’ve always jokingly called them ‘the royal couple’ but this is going to give me more ammunition for some playful banter), but it suits him, even if Sophie doesn’t like to hear it. Harry will do what Harry wants to do and, no matter how much Sophie pretends to think she’s boss, she won’t change his mind. But she loves him just the way he is, beard or no beard.

‘My new job is … well it’s … let’s just say it’s very different to what I was used to at St Patrick’s,’ I say to him, popping an olive into my mouth. Jack has prepared a table of nibbles including sun-dried tomatoes, small cubes of feta cheese and mixed olives with a delicious Italian dressing, and as we sit here in the garden with the smell of the barbecue and the view of the sun going down in the distance, we know we’ve made the right decision to dine at home.

‘Posh little bastards, I bet,’ says Harry, laughing then swigging his beer. ‘I used to be one of those nasty little buggers too, so I feel your pain. We gave our teachers hell in primary school. I don’t envy you at all.’