The return of The Great British Bake Off is a sure sign that the world can be a better place

There is a moment in one’s life when it becomes apparent that the passage of time is marked not by the lengthening of dark evenings, nor by birthdays, nor the start and end of school terms, but by the arrival of particular TV events. It is possible that this moment indicates a wrong turn on life’s pathway, or even the beginning of an inexorable decline; but it can also offer a sense of comfort too, as you realise that narrower horizons mean fewer lurking dangers.

And so it is this week that The Great British Bake Off returns to our screens, a reassuring marker of the world’s slow, continued spinning; and a hint that in spite of every recent stumble, some things really don’t change.

It can surely be no coincidence that the government chose the lead-up to GBBO to announce plans to force public service broadcasters to produce “distinctively British” programmes. After all, what could be more British than a show that looks cheap and cheerful, mixes high camp with pure gluttony, and has old people front and centre. All it needs is for the current credits to be replaced by Prue Leith singing “The White Cliffs of Dover” while a Spitfire drops fluffy meringue bombs.

That said, I can barely wait for the new series to begin. Even putting to one side that general sense of wellbeing I get when I realise that I’ve made it through to another season, the simple truth is that watching people cook is both funny and delightful. Sometimes it can be fraught, as when that fella in 2014 furiously slopped his baked alaska into a bin because it hadn’t set in time. But mostly it’s the television equivalent of an unhurried train journey when you’re feeling a little sleepy and the view from the window is unendingly charming.

If I have two quibbles with the show, they are relatively minor. The first is about rising expectations, which I suppose is more or less inevitable when a competition reaches its 12th series, but which nevertheless sometimes grates. I like to see a fancy show-stopper as much as the next viewer, but I’d also be thoroughly pleased to see a retired accountant in green cords make a decent set of six white baps and be told by Prue that they are “just the ticket, and wonderful with lashings of butter”. Because, really, is there anything nicer than a butter-slathered roll?

Actually, if you go back a decade to the first ever shows, I’m fairly confident that Paul Hollywood was dishing out handshakes to anyone who could make a basic loaf or jam tart… which brings me to quibble number two: the handshake.

I know it’s meant well. But the degree to which the contestants are so desperate for the firm grasp has become cloying, and the way that Paul toys with their emotions borders on the obscene. When the hand finally does get thrust over the work bench, the passionate release on all sides is so palpable that I find myself looking the other way. I mean, let’s not beat around the bush: a Hollywood Handshake sounds like something Hugh Grant was looking for on Sunset Boulevard on that fateful night in 1995.

No matter. When Paul gets out his strong hand and bedroom eyes, I can simply leave the room for a cup of tea. And if the judges remark snidely that someone’s 34-layered cake is “a tad unambitious”, I can shout my own congratulations to the weeping contestant through the telly. For the other 95 per cent of the show, I will feel I am in heaven: calmed by the culinary brilliance of strangers; tantalised by their beautiful creations; and reassured that for as long as the GBBO marquee stands firm against the storm, some things are alright in the world.