‘No,’ I say. ‘This isn’t that kind of neighbourhood. There’s a Facebook group about the bins that people are too busy for. They don’t want intruding upon in their own homes.’

‘Well, the response has been very positive. Come in!’

Benjamin nods and sits down.

I take a deep breath. With no idea how much of my reputation is left, I hold my inner water steady and follow her into the lounge. There are six of them in there, three on each sofa. Caroline from over the street, Raoul and Leonie from next door, and two other people I recognise from down the road. The table is covered with bowls of tortilla chips and half-full tumblers. My mother’s crystal ball is uncovered and sits on top of the TV cabinet. The lights are low and there are tea-lights shivering on the mantelpiece. This is not my lounge. Its strangeness is shocking, yet comforting.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m just saying hello.’

‘My daughter is a non-believer,’ my mother says.

‘I’m not. I don’t really have a label for what I am. Spiritually curious. Open-minded.’ I say this to her specifically: ‘Sensible.’

‘You don’t believe?’ says Benjamin. He looks sad for me.

‘I believe that all this is a valid social framework for processing grief, or something like that. I don’t mind it as a support group. It’s the money-making aspect I object to.’ I say it pleasantly.

Truth be told, when it came to mediumship, I had often felt quite moved by the mumsy delivery – the platitudes, the reassurances. There’s light at the end of the tunnel, pet …When one door closes, another door opens … In a way, it was a lot like therapy. And marginally cheaper. Marginally.

‘Well, I’ll be off so you can get your money’s worth.’ I nod goodbye. ‘Cheerio!’

I make to leave the room.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Benjamin,’ my mother says. ‘I just need to go and rinse my crystals.’

She pulls me towards the kitchen. There’s fancy finger-food on the counter tops. The toaster is unplugged.

‘I know you have issues with what I do,’ my mother says, filling a gin balloon with ice (where have the gin balloons come from? I do not own gin balloons). ‘Just as I have issues with what you do. Your preaching to the choir.’

I see a stack of notes in the wine rack. She sees me staring at them.

She continues: ‘What I do has its place. It is worthwhile, you know. In the modern world, textual and verbal knowledge is prized above other kinds, and that’s not right. What I do is intuitive. Not everyone is academic.’

‘Don’t compare this to a lack of plumbing apprenticeships, Mother. I’d rather you were an arms dealer. Seriously, I’d be more proud.’