I don't know about you, but I love Sunday lunch. It doesn't matter what I've been doing or where I've been during the week - often on the road, in the air or in some hotel somewhere - Sunday lunch is the humbling, grounding experience it always has been.
For the 10 years Cas and I have been together, we've been lucky enough to have parents that have, apart from a handful of times, been willing to host Sunday lunch.
It's always been a family time, when nephews, nieces, aunties and uncles come and get together over roast chicken, beef or lamb.
We are a family of dog lovers, and the inlaws house becomes a hive of activity with, at last count; 3 basset hounds, 2 cocker spaniels, 1 springer spaniel, 1 westie and the most recent addition, Lexie, the mischevious scotty.
Often Sunday lunch includes sport, on the tv and then re-enacted in the garden with my tireless nephews. More often, I'm a climbing frame.
I'm sat writing this, with smell of roast lamb and potatoes in the air, and the whining of my little nephew "Bryan" (Ryan, but Bryan annoys him!) who wants to show me his new football tricks he learned this week. So off I go, towed by child before Sunday lunch is on the table.