Ah yes, Bee's birthday dinner. Part two. Of about four, it seems. And what I mean by that is that my wife has a block booking of at least a week of festivities when it comes to her birthday. Why not? I applaud any excuse for as many celebratory meals as possible and in this case, it was a landmark birthday so the meals were even more sumptuous and apples in a pig's mouth than normal. We are certainly reducing our intake in the coming week as I now can't see my feet when I stand up. It's going to be grilled fish and salad for us as we strive to get our bodies back to being temples, and not the temples of doom they have been.

Looking back at what we have been eating and drinking for the past seven days makes eye-watering reading. No wonder the steep and incredibly beautiful walk from Lulworth Cove to Durdle door in unseasonably blue-sky sunshine was not as easy as it was when I last did it eight years ago. However, nowadays we always use exercise as a justification to stuff it later in the day. After all, we deserve it. Don't we? Although perhaps an hours walk in the sun up a gently steep hill perhaps doesn't quite equate to two pints, olives, crisps, 3 bottles of champagne, 2 bottles of white wine and five bottles of red,   six tiger prawns in garlic butter each, enormous home-made burgers with fries, mayonnaise, Roquefort sauce, onion rings, coleslaw, banoffi pie, tiramisu and 6 different cheeses with sparking pudding wine.

That was between six of us though, but today it feels as if I tackled it alone. I didn't. But I'm going to try today. (No I'm not, that just made me feel ill…) The point is, all that has been great fun, but the best meal of all was the one on the day of her birth. Just the two of us, some Prosecco  and a good old fashioned roast chicken. Not that it was old fashioned because it was wearing a monocle and listening to the wireless when we cooked it, but because it, and here's going back some, has been eaten since the Middle Ages. Which Bee and I are fast approaching with our waistlines.

There are reasons why such food remains deeply loved rather than faddish and forgotten. A good roast chicken with all the trimmings can hold its own with the finest food on the planet. In fact, the dish should have a Michelin star itself. It brings more joy to anyone I know than any other meal. But then, it's not just a meal. It's a childhood warmth, a grandmother's love, a fireside with a good book. Of course, it has to be the best chicken you can get your hands on, we all know that by now. A chicken makes at least 3 meals and each one a joy. The next day I made chicken curry from the leftover meat and a glorious stock from the bones. The bird is not paltry, it's incredible. Especially when you use a whole packet of butter under the skin, stuff it's insides with onion, herbs, garlic and lemon then wrap it in Parma ham and serve it with deeply amber crusted roast potatoes, parsnips, almost charcoaled red peppers, curry powder roasted carrots and gravy from the juices. A good roast chicken is not just dinner, roast chicken is love.

We normally eat ours on the sofa with a good film, but Bee always has a go at me for this. She says we should eat it on plates.