The auctioneer’s accountant praised the clarity of the layout of our financial transactions. ‘That comes from years of working with spreadsheets’, I said with pride.

The accountant’s colleagues were not so happy that we sisters argued openly in front of them. J couldn’t bear to be contradicted even when she knew that the evidence pointed to a completely different conclusion, i.e. the one that didn’t suit her. I asked the auctioneers if they had ever suffered worse clients. I was aghast to learn that they had.

Since we were on the auctioneer’s premises, I wondered out loud if it might please be possible to have a peek at the warehouse. The staff – including Barbara, who had the problem with proof-reading auction catalogue entries – led us down a spiral staircase. I almost turned back due to my claustrophobia, but somehow found the courage to continue. At the end of the journey we accessed a room stuffed with antiques (and junk). I was very taken by an elaborate blue wooden bed, although not sufficiently to put in an offer for it. It was only a tiny double, after all.

Afterwards I needed to catch the Newcastle train south. I nearly missed it because I had to return to the house with J (still arguing) to pick up my forgotten handbag.