Dad was in London this weekend, leaving Provence in the supposedly safe hands of the French. So, we arranged to meet for brunch; something we used to do about 20 years ago. I can’t believe it was two decades back. I was still at school, and probably grumpy about having to get dressed up smart on a late Sunday morning.

Times have certainly changed.

They don’t do it on the top floor of the Hilton any more, with a view out across Hyde Park. Instead the brunch bunch has transplanted itself to the Marriot where the same too-much-money rich bitches pile their plates high and leave half of it, course after course after course.

The food is excellent, with thick cuts of rare, pink tuna stakes in the nicoise salad, anchovies the size of small trout in the caesar, and more deserts than a whole series of Delia Smith which, at £12.50 a head if you book through Top Table, is nothing short of a bargain. The ultimate high-class ’scoff as much as you can eat’ buffet.

It was also a very good excuse to be out of Chelmsford. This weekend it’s been over-run by boots-wearing, mud-encrusted music fans for the V Festival, which I can hear streaming through the window as I type, almost as well as I would if I was stood before the stage in Hylands Park.

The last time I went, I think, would have been to V98, when we’d stood in the pouring rain to watch Robbie Williams, and Sal had concussed herself on a concrete block in the chill-out tent, after which she spent some time chilling out in a St John’s Ambulance.

One of the great things about being 32, though, is that you can adopt an air of supreme superiority about the whole affair, and not feel that you might be missing out by not attending. Particularly not when, as last night, you’re tucked up in bed listening to a tropical deluge hammering down, thinking about the poor wet fans in their single-skin festival tents two miles down the road.

Those time that have changed have changed for the better.

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