As I write this, I’m sipping a cup of coffee the colour and temperature of pond water. My toast has gone cold. I haven’t brushed my teeth. I am also in a pair of XL men’s tartan pyjamas and some lime green sports socks. Just to “paint you the picture,” as it were.

If, like me, you’re simply too busy to stand at people’s kitchen windows and stare, silently, at what they’re having for lunch, then please avail yourself below of the best meals, morsels, and munchies uploaded to Instagram this week.

I need to shower.

Now that the Bank of England has started turning all of our five pound notes into what feels like poorly laminated membership cards to a suburban leisure centre, I suppose it’s only a matter of time until this apple lattice pie replaces the portcullis on the back of one penny coins and we get a stiff meringue on the back of the 50p piece.

So, apparently, if you massage cows with enough Body Shop Marjoram and Rose body oil, play it old episodes of Miss Marple, brush its teeth with honey and whatever else they do to wagyu cattle these days, their flesh turns into a pomegranate. I’m sure they’re thrilled.

I really did think that was one of those massive shells people use as a soap dish that you can buy for a pound outside “bits ‘n’ bobs” shops on a pier, shoved into the middle of a basket of chocolates when I first looked at it. But apparently not. It’s just a heart attack on a slab of marble.

Talking of shells … to be honest, if I wanted to chew on what looks like a gently sweating testicle and a couple of chunks of Edam, I could probably arrange that at home. Still, it’s nice to get out, isn’t it?

When faced with a platter, I suddenly develop all the self control of an incontinent labrador sliding down a log flume. Never have I left a buffet situation in anything less than near-morbid digestive extension. Even on a ferry. In Scotland.

Oh, look! Prince made us all some spaghetti from beyond the grave.

Ah, Autumn. To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells with a sweet kernel; sometimes thou dost steady thy laden head across a brook, or by a cider press, with patient look, and watchest the last oozings hours by hours, as rosy clouds bloom the soft-dying day. As Keats literally never tweeted.

I see your mum’s taking the news well. Of course, she’s absolutely fine with you bringing another man home—she loves gay people. She just calls them people, actually. Of course she does, darling. That man—Carl, is it?—who works as a lifeguard, he plucks his eyebrows, apparently. And she once gave him a lift to the station. She’s absolutely fine about it. I don’t know why you keep asking!

Is there anything quite as confoundingly exciting as eating an actual flower? I remember the first time I opened the papery leaves of a physalis to discover the world’s smallest, hardest orange on the top of a pavlova. That was some kind of Alice in Wonderland shit. I ate four.

This isn’t scary—this is just what crumpets looked like when they’d come out of my great aunt Enid’s larder.