I ATTEMPTED my first ever roast dinner on Sunday.

This was A Big Deal as I was catering for Smithy (a roast dinner connoisseur), my parents-in-law (people I want to impress who happen to be excellent cooks) and a weaning baby (very stroppy and not averse to a hunger strike when unimpressed).

I’m not saying I went overboard, but the planning of the meal took several days.

There were spreadsheets, there were timetables and there were graphs and charts.

Everything was planned meticulously, right down to the condiments and table decorations.

“No, no, no!” I admonished my poor husband as he attempted to help.

“I said the burgundy candle-holders, not the red candle-holders! No not the maroon either! I said burgundy!”

He looked confusedly down at the decorations in his hand.

And I could see the cogs whirring as he considered whether to argue with me.

He chose wisely not to, but returned to the cupboard muttering under his breath: “They’re all the bloody same...”

But I wanted perfection.

I wanted my diners to eat, drink and be merry and to eventually push away their plates, pat their stomachs and say: “Gosh darn Anna Smith, that was the best roast dinner I’ve ever eaten!”

Or words to that effect.

In the end the cooking of said meal went well.

The gravy wasn’t lumpy, the vegetables weren’t too al dente and the candle-holders, praise the Lord, matched the napkins.

Admittedly the graphs and charts weren’t much help when the Yorkshires began to carbonise after I forgot to set a timer for them.

But the important thing is that everything ended up hot and cooked and on plates at the same time.

And it’s fair to say nobody went home hungry.

I’d call that a success!

And the fact that everybody came down with an unrelated winter vomiting bug the same night?

That’s definitely just coincidence.

Definitely.