Emily in Paris is not trying to be good in the way people keep demanding it be good, and pretending otherwise is a waste of everyone's time. It is a fashion fantasy set in a Paris where nobody commutes, your neighbors are hot, and the marketing crises resolve themselves within nineteen minutes. On those terms it is close to flawless.

The clothes are the plot, the plot is an excuse for the clothes, and Lily Collins commits so completely to the bit that you stop resisting somewhere in the first season. Sylvie remains the show's secret weapon — withering, immaculate, and the only character who appears to have an interior life.

Yes, the love triangles reset like a video game. Yes, the French characters occasionally exist to be charmed. The show knows. It winks. It hands you another glass and moves on.

Watch it with your brain switched off and your phone face down and it delivers exactly what it promises: colour, nonsense, and the pleasant delusion that your life could also look like this. Comfort viewing of the highest order.