The ceiling above him shows cracks running through the plasterwork from one side of the room to the other, snaking right through to the cornicing. Anton thinks of the materials of this house standing solidly for more than a hundred and fifty years. A century and a half enduring winters and summers, expanding and contracting with the seasons, the elements taking their toll. No wonder there are cracks. No wonder the edifice is crumbling. He feels a bit like the house. In need of some support. A bit of underpinning.

In the bathroom, he assesses his reflection in the mirror. Not bad, he thinks, parting his lips to examine his teeth, still strong, still whitish. His eyes – always his best feature – are a little bleary this morning, but after rinsing his face with water some of their clarity returns, the irises a muddy green. ‘Like looking into a deep pool,’ Janice had once told him – or was it Helen? He towel-dries his face, which in recent days has started to tan. Perhaps he should dig out some of his old summer clothes, if the moths haven’t ravaged them. He needs a haircut. Today might be the day for it. His birthday. He is sixty years old.

Downstairs, he picks up the post. No birthday cards, no surprise packages, just a postcard from an estate agent and a begging letter from a charitable organization, the envelope adorned with photographs of little African children, their bellies swollen, flies crawling around their eyes. In the kitchen, he throws the post into the bin, then changes his mind and fishes out the estate agent’s card. He sits at the kitchen table contemplating it.

Dear Property Owner,

Thinking of moving? We have clients in the area who would love to make an offer on your house! Don’t delay. Contact us today on blah, blah, blah …

Perhaps he should give it some thought. Maybe Phil might have an opinion – he’ll ask his advice when he sees him this evening.

They were golf partners back in the day – Anton’s handicap was four while Phil had played off scratch, but even though they were unevenly matched in their abilities, the friendship between them compensated for it. He had called Phil yesterday, suggesting they meet for a small birthday celebration in Finnegans. Anton had heard the surprise in his voice, the hesitation before acceptance of his offer, and it reminded him of how Phil had barely ever visited him in the hotel. Once or twice a year for the first couple of years, but after that nothing. Still, Anton won’t hold it against him. He resolves not to bring it up when they meet for pints. Let sleeping dogs lie.