There are biscuits (cookies, if you speak American), that are luxurious. Buttery or chocolatey confections, studded with every kind of nut, or redolent with aromatic spices. There are those with literary associations, those inextricably linked with particular places or occasions, and those whose appeal seems to be global.

Through the pandemic, however, only one has provided me limitless comfort, guaranteed solace and sheer joy. Its inviting package graphics, the satisfying crunch of its flattened-torus-shaped biscuity bit, accompanied by the glistening, crystalline, jammy, creamy chewiness of its centre, transport me seamlessly to childhood afternoons. It is unapologetically sweet. It lacks dunkability. It makes no pretences to healthy eating or to sophistication.

 You can keep your macaroons, your shortbreads, your double chocolate chocolate chip cookies, your Shrewsburys and Bourbons, your Hobnobs, your ladyfingers, your Oreos and nankhatais, even your biscotti. For me the shortest, swiftest route to happiness is the Jim Jam.

 As we continue to match wits with the virus, and adjust our behaviours and habits to its constantly morphing demands, I wish you unlimited access to your equivalent of the Jim Jam and to caring folk who will ensure you are always adequately supplied.