“WHY do you do it to yourself?” my friend asked.

“I don’t know,” I said as I stirred the Chilli Con Carne for the millionth time and fretted about the flambe.

Incidentally, I don’t like chilli but it is easy and quick and feeds lots of people without much fuss.

“I have been such a hermit recently that I feel like I need to spread my wings a bit. There really is so much of getting into my pyjamas as early as possible that I can take and anyway, it’s only work people and they are chilled out. They won’t mind if the food’s burnt or the dog steals the cheddar as long as they have whisky and beer.

“And anyway, we are meant to be having an evening of just games and jolly entertainment.”

“Yeah, but even so you have been up since the crack of dawn.”

“I know. I need Botox,” I said, peering my friend’s line-free, glowing face. “That will solve everything oh and maybe a chef and a bigger house and a body that doesn’t look like sponge.”

The boys turned up first, brandishing FIFA 2016 and bottles of Jim Bean, clearly wanting to make a night of it, but the Teen and I are asleep by an evangelical 9.30pm these days.

And while it serves our day to day existence, it does little, in fact nothing, for our social lives.

The boys looked at me quizzically as I opted for lemonade over lager and raised their eyes even higher when my friend set up the Scrabble board.

"What's happened Bate? Where's the music? The dancing? The drinking?" asked Joel.

"It's like visiting my Gran in an Old People's Home," he laughed at his own joke for what seemed like ages.

By 11pm we were all sitting round the table with our letter tiles.

I haven't played Scrabble since I was three and I'm not very good so I make up words and then give them mythical meanings.

Our game ended as the sun rose.

So much for my new puritanical lifestyle, but at least I didn't wake up with a hangover. And at least I now know what ennui means. Which didn't describe our evening at the hermitage at all.