Emily in Paris (Netflix) and I did not get off to a good start. I watched the first season and thought it was soulless, vapid, insufferable fluff. Yet within days, a lot of people I knew were watching it. They mostly seemed to agree that it was vapid fluff, but were happy to suffer through season one, and later season two. I did not feel so out of step again until I enjoyed the first two episodes of The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power. I asked a friend if Emily in Paris is still dreadful. “Yes,” he said. “And it’s heaven.”

To prepare for season three, and in the interests of journalism, I watched season two, somewhat reluctantly. I had loathed the selfish and entitled Emily (Lily Collins), and found its forced zaniness to be grating. Perhaps it was the lowered expectations, or perhaps the need for light relief has only grown since 2020, but I didn’t hate it quite as much as I had before. It seemed to have become more self-aware. Emily was no longer the centre of the universe, and the supporting cast had been given personalities outside her orbit. It understood its absurdities. Emily was even learning French. It wasn’t heaven, exactly, but neither was it hell.