When I was thirty, I was dumped from a great height by someone I now recognise was evil.

My buddies congregated around me, filled me up with booze and reassured me that the problem, whatever it was, was not mine.

Among the multitudinous pints of Guinness and the forest of ill-advised jägerbombs, was my friend, John. An exceptionally tall chap, he is also one of the kindest fellas I’ve ever known.

John realised that booze alone was not the answer, so he invited me over to his Static caravan and he made me dinner.

He had gone shopping especially for the occasion. Knowing that I lived alone, and therefore, probably existed solely on microwave food, he made roast lamb, with all the trimmings – potatoes in goose fat, broccoli, carrots, peas, gravy, a four-pack of cans and a film.

It was astonishingly warm in the caravan. Not just because of the roasting meat in the oven, but also because he had his heating set to 24℃, as well as a log fire roaring away in the log burner.

John remains one of my favourite people in the world. He’s a dang good friend and a deeply perceptive one. There’s nothing quite like a perceptive friend who can cook.

On a side note, I can recommend sweating out the heartache.