‘Come on, Sad Sam, the day is young, even if we aren’t.’ Betty brushes the crumbs off her hands and removes her pinny, then uses the mirror on the windowsill to reapply her lipstick. ‘Let’s go out for a walk.’

‘No, thanks. People might think we’re friends. Your lips have gone all blue. Are you ill?’

‘Tut. It’s frosty shimmer from Avon. What do you fancy doing, then?’

‘I’m going to listen to the cricket. You are going to bugger off and annoy someone else.’

Betty just laughs and says, ‘God’s socks, you are grumpy!’ then lays out the cards for them to play Patience.

‘You’ll need a lot of bloody patience if you think I’m playing fucking card games. Plus, it’s a one-player game. Play it yourself.’

Eventually, she gives up and picks up her knitting, the clacking of her needles receiving little rounds of applause every few minutes. The cricket plays loudly on the radio and George is being lulled to sleep by the sound of leather on willow, except then Betty suddenly switches over to Radio 2.

‘What are you doing, you harridan? I’ve just missed a wicket.’

As soon as the cricket is back on, George goes back to snoring and Betty goes back to her scarves for the homeless.

George is woken by his stomach announcing it’s time for lunch.

‘We only had breakfast two hours ago!’

‘Pah. One measly sandwich for a man like me?’

Betty sighs, puts away her knitting, and goes to the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you come along to bowls with me this week?’ she says, a short while later, as she brings over a plate laden with food.

‘I wouldn’t be caught dead on a bowls pitch.’ George raps his knife on the top of a boiled egg.

‘Why not? It’s the same costume as cricket.’

George looks up as he stabs at the top of the egg. ‘It’s not a fucking costume. It’s a kit. A kit. And bowls is played by old bastards with nothing better to do. Cricket is a game of skill. It requires finesse and subtlety. Something you’ll never understand.’

‘Merlin’s beard, George! It’s only hitting a ball with a bat! Here, let me do that.’ Betty tries to take George’s knife from him. ‘You’re scalping the poor thing.’

‘I want to scalp it, you daft cow. Then I want to eat it! It’s an egg, for fuck’s sake, not one of your hopeless cases. Why do you have to save everything? I bet you say sorry to the shitting teabags before pouring boiling water on them.’

Betty drops the knife and steps back, faltering slightly. ‘I was only trying to help you, George.’

George sighs but relents. ‘Fine. The thing was burning my fingers anyway.’ Betty off-kilter makes him feel a bit fuzzy. He thinks of apologizing but swallows the words.