Suzanne Harrington: The perfect recipe to get Boris off my TV

My telly is a lonely thing, dusty and neglected, an inanimate Miss Havisham abandoned on a shelf; I’d anticipated the next time I would hit the on button would be for season three of HBO’s Succession, which hasn’t even started filming yet because of the plague.

I’d forgotten all about the Great British Bake Off, my annual dip into pleasurable jelly-telly. 2020 had wiped it from my brain, along with lots of other positives like faith in Western democracy, belief in the innate intelligence of humans, and hope that we could co-operate together collectively so that we don’t all go extinct before season three of Succession. Which is how I find myself sitting, tea and biscuits to hand, awaiting the opening Bake Off credits with the kind of joyful anticipation normally reserved for sex and birthdays.