The iron is shit and he’s given up. Funny how you care less about standards when you have to keep them up yourself. Plus he’s learned that the creases come out in the end. Everything does. He writes a to-do shopping list in pencil, sharpened with the Swiss army knife he keeps in his pocket. Brighton is dangerous, these days. You never know.

In the village, he marches into the post office and demands a form. There is someone already at the counter, but George doesn’t care. He is full of purpose and things that need to be done.

The woman serving him is old and bitter and smells of Murray Mints, which reminds George to buy some. He likes the rustle they make in his pocket.

‘How do I fill it in?’

‘Just write in the boxes.’

‘They’re too small.’

‘Put your glasses on.’

George isn’t used to unhelpful women and it puts him on the back foot. He doesn’t want to fill in the form himself. He wants someone (yes, ideally a woman) to do it for him.

‘It says I need a photo.’ George is hot and cross by this point and is tempted just to leave it. The thought of paying full price for the bus again is what stops him. The woman (nametag Pru) points at a machine in the corner, then goes back to stamping things. It takes George a while to grasp that he is supposed to get inside it, then press buttons. When he does, many times, nothing happens.

‘Fuck’s sake. Japanese shite,’ he says to Pru, who ignores him.

The shop is starting to get busy and George is in the way, Poppy squirming in his arms. Finally, a lad behind him steps in to help and tells George he needs to put in two pounds fifty for the photos.

‘Two pounds fifty? Daylight bloody robbery!’

‘You put the money in the slot there and press this button when you’re ready. I’m not sure you’re allowed to have your dog in the photo.’ George ignores him and clambers back in, Poppy under one arm.

At first, he can’t find the slot for the money, so in the first photo he’s squinting. In the second, Poppy’s face is blocking his, barking at the camera. The final photo ‘will do’, according to Pru. Finally, form complete, photo included, George turns to leave.

‘Wait.’ Pru digs around in the drawer under her desk and pulls out a letter covered with crumbs. ‘Been here for ages, was going to put it in the bin.’

George reads it on the bus into Brighton centre, his wrinkled hands smoothing out the crinkles.