In your twenties when you throw a dinner party you make pasta. I once served garlic bread which I  put straight in the oven without removing the cellophane wrapper and nearly poisoned everyone. In your thirties you do something vaguely interesting with chicken, but you get so drunk before you start cooking that everyone ends up with takeout. In your forties, you buy ready meals from Waitrose, and lots of jolly decent wine so people don’t realise you still can’t cook.