Caz sets out the strategy. After each present they open they will make a note of the item and any distinguishing features (colour, pattern) and the giver (full name). The person who opens the present will be responsible for recording it. They will put the unwrapped presents in a clean storage box. They will not deviate from this plan.

Silver tissue paper yields a boxed china cake stand, the type found in old-fashioned tea shops and flea markets (‘Beautiful,’ sighs Caz). There’s a tea set, an Indian tablecloth and napkins, a lead crystal vase, a bottle of port and a set of port glasses, a cocktail shaker, some doilies, a sushi set, a cheese bell, various items of cookware, including a blender and heart-shaped cookie cutters, some framed photographs of Brighton, and a lot of booze.

There are more cards taped to the presents – thick, square, pastel-coloured envelopes which scatter sequins or glitter when they are opened. Some of the boxed presents have come detached from their cards (or never had cards?) And maybe some cards in the presents pile never had presents attached. The two of them scour the wrappings for a clue. In some cases they find a loose matching gift tag or a note written directly onto the wrapping. In the end they have three loose cards and two loose presents – the tea set and a bottle of Tuaca. The Tuaca has a gift tag but no signature. Neither of them recognizes the handwriting. They check it against the loose cards but it doesn’t match. The tea set has no gift tag.

They dig out the guest list. They cross off all the people whose gifts could be identified. Then they divide the people remaining into two categories – people who might have given the tea set and people who might have given the Tuaca.

They think they have identified the tea set giver. They make a few guesses about the Tuaca. This process, punctuated by sandwiches and tapping, takes all afternoon. It seems a shame to put all the shiny sequinned paper into the recycling, but they do this.

Turning the lamp on provokes a long series of taps, so they turn it off again and sit in the gloom. This doesn’t stop the tapping but it becomes more intermittent.

They can’t face another evening of listening to the bird dying. They go into town, to a vegetarian restaurant in the Lanes, to escape.

They stay as late as they dare, eking out a slab of chocolate cake between them in tiny forkfuls. They smile at each other across the table, thinking of all the evenings spent in unwalled restaurants with plastic red-and-white check tablecloths, sharing out the last of the carafe as behind them the staff unobtrusively stacked chairs and wiped down the bar.

Caz pulls out the wad of wedding money and fans it with her thumb.

‘Better get the bill.’