Yes, The Great British Bake Off is back, and I'm hooked again.
Rooted to my sofa with my Labrador at my feet, I sit and ooh and aah at the various creations on screen, critiquing the baked goods like I'm some sort of expert (I'm really not), whilst still fearing for Mary Berry's teeth on the sturdier offerings produced - the biscotti were particularly nerve-wracking in this regard.
Marie went from star baker to bus fare home in the space of a week, which surprised me, but if you can't switch on the oven then chances are you're not going to win Bake Off any time soon. (I appreciate that's ruled me out then, those fancy Neff ovens must take a bit of working out and could be my own personal technical challenge.)
So far my favourite bakers are Sandy from Yorkshire and Mat the fireman - because he's a good baker, nothing to do with a man in uniform before you ask - although I think the youngest competitor, Flora, has a good chance of winning too.
Paul, the Prison Governor, appears slightly scary and I wouldn't want to upset him over rating his sponge cakes, and although I like Nadiya, she always looks terrified when presenting her bakes on the gingham altar of judgment.
Then there was Dorret; I will confess to gasping in abject horror at her collapsing Black Forest gateau - and I for one didn't think I'd ever say that without borrowing a time machine! At least she kept her cool and didn't fling it straight in the bin like Iain did with his not-baked Alaska last year.
Who would have thought that a wholesome pursuit like baking could turn responsible adults into snivelling wrecks, obsessed about soggy bottoms?!