I made a big mistake during the year after my husband died: I went alone to one of our favourite snazzy restaurants for dinner on my birthday. The food and service were as excellent as ever, but it was a dreadful experience. Since then, I limit my solo expeditions to the greasy spoon where the owners knew and liked Edmund, and brought me heat-and-eat dinners during my first stunned winter as a widow.

It would seem that, for me, restaurant dining is really about the company, not the food.

I get along fine on a diet of fish fillets and veg from the freezer, with ridiculously expensive oranges to keep scurvy at bay and frequent large cups of cocoa to ensure I get enough calcium. But that’s nutrition, not dining.

Having finished her first-year final exams, my great-niece is coming to visit this afternoon. For two weeks, I have been pleasurably musing on which of Stratford's several fine restaurants will appeal to her most. There’s a new place on Waterloo Street …