Newly-wed SL (was SJ) sang the praises of my husband to an audience that included her mother and me. I budged uncomfortably in my seat, taking care not to ram it into the table behind me. I’d already been told off for accidentally doing this a couple of times. Everyone believed that TPR and I enjoyed a perfect relationship, but they missed all the complaints of my errant behaviour and taunts over my lack of fitness.

Only that morning in the park an incident had the potential to lead to more trouble. First I joined a game of rounders in deep field where, it has to be admitted, I was hopeless.

I then got caught up with a neo-Nazi team of overweight Sunday morning footballers. As the players actively ignored a Jewish man’s request to participate in the match, in the grass I found a clutch of rusting 1980s music badges, including one for the Smiths.

Their owner turned out to be a tall, skinny, red-haired myopic lad in his mid-twenties. When I told him that I’d seen Morrissey recently he gathered me into his arms and danced me round the playing fields.

After a polite goodbye I headed back to SL’s house. Doubtless I had just recruited yet another Facebook stalker.