Emilie joined the rest of us on the older side of 30 this month, so to celebrate we all headed for La Trouvaille on Newburgh Street, perhaps the Frenchest French restaurant in London.

She’s booked out the whole of upstairs where the rooms are airy and light courtesy of some breezy sash windows, whitewashed walls and a preponderance of mirrors. It’s much more comfortable than the restaurant downstairs where we had our team Christmas lunch there a couple of years ago and half of us ended up sitting on the windowsill, our backs against the cold glass.

Excellent food. Guinea fowl, halloumi, sea bass, creamy cheeses, rich chocolate mousse scooped out of a generous kitchen bowl and dropped in front of you with a satisfying squelch… it took us five hours to finish our meal, and by the time we left the shops of Carnaby Street were locking their doors.

Rode home with a pounding head; the wine hadn’t stopped flowing from the moment we arrived until we headed back down the stairs. We thought the walk across town, back to the station by way of the buzzy South Bank might have done us some good, but it actually just made our knees ache as much as our heads.

Dry Ryvita for dinner: a necessary evil.

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