Debbie Johnson - Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café - The only heart-warming feel-good novel you need!

“Nope! Not listening! I’m not having an argument with someone whose face I pulled out of their own vomit last night, all right? You’re not doing so well, and that’s that. Neither am I. I think we need to make some changes. We need a new world order, because this one sucks.”

I’m saved from the oncoming tirade by a knock on the door. We both stare at each other, momentarily taken aback, before we hear a familiar voice: “Coo-ee! It’s only me!”

For once in complete agreement, Martha and I do a neatly choreographed eye-roll, and sigh in mutual exasperation.

“It’s Sunday, isn’t it?” I say, glancing at my watch and seeing that it is dead on noon. Our common nemesis is nothing if not punctual.

“Yeah. Shit. We forgot. How does Sunday keep happening so often?” she replies, looking genuinely confused.

“I don’t know … it’s like we’re trapped in some kind of hell dimension, doomed to eternal knocks on the door and ‘coo-ees’, and …”

“And the next line – any minute now …”

We both pause, our heads on one side like curious budgerigars, and grin as we wait for the inevitable.

“It’s only me!” shouts Barbara again, and I can just picture her on the doorstep, faffing with her scarf and checking her cameo brooch and sniffing the air like she’s a bloodhound on the track of moral iniquity. “Don’t like to intrude,” she trills, “but I’ll just use my key …”

Martha stares at me. I stare back.

“She’s lying,” says Martha, swigging down the last of the coffee. “She loves intruding. You should get the locks changed.”

She strides off to go and get properly dressed, and I attempt to smooth my crazy curls down into something less likely to make Barbara make the sign of the cross when she sees me.

It’s Sunday. Again. Which means that Martha gets the unrivalled joy of lunch with her grandparents – and I get a few more hours to plan our escape to the West Country.

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