Pyjamas. Sofa. TV.

Nothing, on a Friday evening, can prevent me from partaking in these three delights, in the order described above. I say Friday evening, to be honest, Stage One (out-of-work-clothes-and-into-my-paint-splattered-garishly-patterned-decade-old-PJs) is achieved no later than 4:52 p.m.

The time is crucial. Stage Two – domination of the 6 foot sofa – must be accomplished by 5:00 p.m. It takes eight minutes to pull off the pussies (now, now, purely for alliterative effect), who cling to the cushions like Velcro; to decamp the dog, who pretends to sleep – eyes open and snoring like a pot-bellied middle-aged bachelor; and, finally, to persuade my perfect partner to perch on our crappy bean bag so I can stretch out. 5:00 p.m. is always my coronation time – I’m talking monarch of the sofa, not ITV soap opera.

Which brings me, seamlessly, onto Stage Three: TV at 5:00 p.m. The holy grail. My Mecca. The highlight of my tedious week.

It’s a brief reign. By 5:11 p.m., I’m asleep and when I wake up (ridiculous o'clock on Saturday morning) my ‘subjects’ have somehow dethroned me. I’ve been crowbarred onto the crappy bean bag. Again.

Until next Friday...