“It’s similar to the song, ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria’ in The Sound of Music but hopefully comes without us wearing curtains and being chased by a load of Nazis.” I shake my head. “Although with Laurie, something like that might easily happen.” I stroke him, looking at his warm brown eyes. “You’re going to be devastated when he goes home,” I say. “You’ll miss him a great deal.” The dog stares at me, and I roll my eyes. “And yes, I am quite aware that I’m projecting my emotions onto you. Thank you for not pointing it out.”

I pat him again and click my fingers. “Onto the sofa,” I command. “I need to work. There isn’t anything in life as important as work.”

And I do my best for another couple of hours to live up to that maxim. I stay in my office buried in my files, making notes and organising myself. My thoughts become serene and focused, and I revel in my return to normality.

However, I celebrate too soon, because when I get home, all my thoughts about Laurie come roaring back, and I’m consumed with seeing him.

Maybe being with him and hearing his voice will return me to normality, I try to reassure myself. He’ll irritate me, and all my feelings will fly away and never be seen again.

I knock on his door, waiting impatiently to hear his footsteps. They’re much more sure after the exercise he’s been doing. The door swings open, and he appears. “Mags,” he says in a deliberately sad and downbeat voice and then cries excitedly, “And Endof! Hurrah!”

I sigh heavily. “I spoke too soon,” I inform him sadly. “It’s all still there.”

“What’s still there? Your brain? Because I’ve got news for you. You’re standing in my doorway talking in riddles.”

I push past him. “Never mind. There’s no hope. What are we doing tonight?”

“Are we doing something? I didn’t know we had plans.”

“Of course, we do. Your list is our plan.”

He shuts the door and follows me into the kitchen, where I open the fridge and look disconsolately at the interior. “Why do you never have anything nice in here?”

He rolls his eyes. “Because I do not employ the saintly Mrs Sinclair.”

“She’d be a lot less saintly if you did.” I grimace as I pluck a mug from the fridge. “Why is there a cup of mouldy tea in here?”

He brightens. “That’s where I put it,” he exclaims. “I’ve been looking for that. It’s actually a good thing it’s just in the fridge because last time I lost track of my tea, I was using it to wash my brushes in.”