Mele e Pere has such bright neon lights outside that walking past I’d previously dismissed it as a sex shop. It’s not, despite some odd shaped Murano glass sculptures of the eponymous fruits on display, but nor is it a trattoria of yore. It’s modern; the high scrubbed wood tables accessed by the kind of tall stools that present a challenge to puffed out old bloaters like K and myself.

Lucy Self pulls on her wellies for a trip to the countryside and visits Godalming’s Bel & Dragon.

In the shadow of the massive garden marquee we know as the O2 Arena is a newly renovated pub known as The Pilot. Offering punters pre-show dinners and a stopover post-show, Poppy Laking, Warden of the South, samples the in-flight menu.

I’ve got a slice of pizza in my hand and I’m looking at a picture of a scruffy bloke with a dark goatee. It clicks. It’s Caravaggio. I recognise him not because I’m a man of art, but because I’m old enough to remember his face on a lira note.