I consider myself something of an expert in such matters, regarding the playlist as one of the most powerful weapons in my armoury of love. Years ago, it was a series of perfectly constructed compilation cassettes that were able to break down Sophie’s defences. It’s not simply a case of bunging one song down after another and hoping for the best. Each track needs to be carefully deliberated over and assessed, appraised for content, fit and flow. Every song choice represents a tiny glass fragment of your inner self; put them all together and the playlist becomes a window into one’s soul.

I could have spent the whole day listening to it while staring dejectedly out of the window. But, having moved on from Liz and the whole Saffrongate thing, I didn’t do that at all.

Friday July 13th

I was staring dejectedly out the window, listening to a playlist, when the doorbell rang. It was Mrs McNulty in a state of some excitement. She’d come over to inform me that my cat has been possessed.

‘Possessed?’

‘Yes. By an evil spirit. Or maybe just by another cat.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I saw her today in the garden and she’s not herself. Just look at her!’

I looked at the cat. She looked very much like my cat, asleep.

‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

‘My point exactly. That’s what she was doing.’

‘I thought you said she was possessed by an evil spirit or another cat?’

‘Well, the evil spirit might belong to a dog. Or a cat with a sense of mischief.’

I remembered it was Friday the 13th. Mrs McNulty gets even crazier on such days. I ushered her out of the house with a hasty promise that I’d look into the matter in hand before she called the RSPCA or a priest.

Saturday July 14th

Dylan and I heard the VW Beetle sound its customary parp as it rounded the corner and Dave, Martin and Marvin were gone, leaving behind a trail of beer cans, cymbals and surgical gloves in their wake.

We went back inside and I saw Dylan surveying the mess in the sitting room: the carpet was covered with records, most of which had been left out of their sleeves and were covered in cat hair; on the sofa lay plates of half-eaten food and empty tubs of houmous; piles of books towered precariously on the floor and it was clear from even the briefest of glances that a number of titles on the bookshelves themselves had fallen out of ISBN order; custard-cream crumbs were everywhere, having settled on the room like a layer of biscuity dandruff.