Sometimes I joke that my sex education arrived in the form of Jilly Cooper novels. I was about 14 when my mum passed me the ‘Romances’ - a handful of novels named after their heroines, nice girls who went to smart parties and had dull jobs in offices, which start with Cooper’s debut Emily - and they were essentially a gateway to the ‘bonkbusters’, or Rutshire Chronicles: the bestselling jaunts through the careers and bedrooms of professional jockeys, polo players, TV executives and art dealers.

Cooper is famous for her sex scenes but I’ve always remembered her novels for their wit and exacting precision for detail. The gimlet eye for sofa cushions and dog beds; a knowingly observant insight into the subtleties of class in rural England. I grew up in a house where our evening meal was always “tea”, but the invitations to “kitchen sups” in Cooper’s novels were variously tinged with malice, passive aggression, lust or care. I’ve never been able to invite someone for “supper” without feeling slightly like I’m playing a role.

Whether it’s tea or sups, there is an undeniable difference between the kinds of evening food you serve people who come over. A dinner party is a thing of planning and light spectacle: the side of salmon, the fizzy wine, the elaborate desert. The gentle choreography of bringing together mutual friends to mingle in the hope of good conversation. You plump pillows ahead of a dinner party. Someone might get the hoover out. There are trips to the fishmonger and the wine shop. Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

Tea, though, is a different beast. Supper if you prefer. It’s the more casual option. The warming up of leftovers and throwing together a salad. The kind of meal where a pot of tea emerges afterwards, rather than a bottle of something and the fancy little glasses. When tables are laid while the guests sit there, and maybe help a bit. This has always been my preferred way to show love: sit down, have a brew, help yourself.

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Last year we threw a lot of dinner parties, giddy on the loosening of lockdown restrictions and a new home to host people in. This year we haven’t, but we’ve probably seen as many people for tea. It marks a shift in a friendship, I think, when you can turn up with half a cake baked with two different meals in mind and there’s a pleasingly large pot of pasta dumped on the table. By all means light a candle but settle in, too. Let the steam and smoking matchsticks add a little romance to my deep, comfortable love for you.

I long to feed my favourite people but I want to talk to them more. I want to squeeze them onto the sofa and bundle them in blankets, I want us to end up in a pile watching a Stanley Tucci film. This is easier when something tends to cook itself. How can I talk to you properly if I’m too busy separating oregano leaves from their stalks? I don’t want to feel the need to show off. Pasta will do, risotto or a curry maybe. Warm, good things.

Kitchen tea is meaningful because it’s more honest. Let the post sit there instead of a tablecloth, don’t worry about the garnish. Serve it up from the pan with a wooden spoon and share an Aero for pudding. Order in pizza and eat Doritos before it comes. The deep, resilient, no-fuss-please friendships don’t care if you’ve made it from scratch.