Ever since C had bought the new bike, she had always turned up on time. I was astonished to see her freewheeling to meet me outside St Chad’s Church near where I was born at exactly the time we had arranged. She was wearing a long linen dress with pretty flowers on it and I coveted it. I reminded myself that later I was going to meet up with Bart Simpson. He was bringing his go-cart.

But first, C and I were off to view my new bedroom and to choose paint colours, although I already knew what I wanted (purple) and was only humouring her. When we got there, my room was an extraordinary bric-a-brac shop in Deptford High Street. Piled near a sofa were six or seven finger paintings that looked like impressionist jigsaws and I looked at all them. Was it acceptable to ‘like’ them if I did so ironically? C found a back room more tidily laid out. Crockery and cranberry glass everywhere. She said to me “You cannot live in this room. It’s a shop” and I was astonished I hadn’t noticed before.