After 25 years of feeding other people I’ve had enough of cooking – from now on it is toast in front of the telly

With the kids off at university, it is just the two of us left at home and the kitchen is officially closed

My nest is officially empty. After some last-minute flapping (how many succulents can you squeeze into a wheelie case, don't pack a pestle and mortar heavier than a neutron star, that kind of thing), the last fledgling left. So it's just the two of us and that means one thing. Not nudity - it's 14C indoors here. The end of cooking. I'll make your birthday dinner," I told my husband, grudgingly. Then we stock up on beans and baking potatoes." This is no empty promise: I've been preparing and anticipating for months.

Well before my sons left, I ran down our overstocked cupboards, treating food requests with miserly suspicion. No, you can't have broccoli, this gluten-free muesli bought by accident in 2017 is sufficiently nutritious, and no, the black specks aren't weevils. Probably. I used to be appalled at what my father would offer on my impromptu visits: three wizened apples, a thimble of sunflower seeds and a two-pack of shortbread fingers from Great Western Railway, the latter presented proudly as a decadent indulgence. Now that seems aspirational.

Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist