‘Hope it works out for you. I must go. Got something on the hob.’

I turn back, jog towards the bungalow, through the door I left wide open. I place the card in the middle of the pile on the dining table. There’s a smell of burned rice in the kitchen and I have to jab the wooden spoon against the bits of risotto that have stuck to the bottom of the pan.

An hour before Kerry gets home. Enough time for me to make the risotto again? Yes. I won’t let some blast from the past spoil our celebration meal. I tip the congealed rice into the kitchen bin, fill the pan with soap and water, scrub away the remnants and measure out another lot of ingredients.

Enough.

The new rice starts to bubble but it still doesn’t feel right. Bloody Joel turning up like that has brought up all those bad feelings from the night on the Lawns.

Well, I won’t have it. I snatch the silver card from the pile and bury it in the burned risotto, before taking the bag out to the wheelie bin outside, tying knot after knot in the top.

‘Hello, my name is Dr Palmer and I understand you are having some problems with your testicles.’

Kerry allows herself a sly smile and stretches out on the sofa. She’s been quiet since last night, though I know she enjoyed the risotto. I did the right thing, making it again. Afterwards, I watched her as she worked her way through the pile of cards, but she obviously wasn’t expecting to get one from Joel.

‘Oh, yes, doctor. The most awful trouble with my crown jewels.’ Testing me with the worst scenarios I might get in my practical exams always cheers her up.

I give her a pained look. ‘Seriously, Kerry?’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘It’s Mr Plum to you.’ But her teasing is gentle. ‘Doctor?’ She nudges me. ‘I’m waiting and the throbbing is giving me so much gyp.’

‘OK. I’ll need to examine you, is that all right, Mr Plum? And I am going to invite someone else to sit in the room for the examination.’

‘As you wish, doctor.’ She reaches for the wine glass and takes a sip. Turns back into Kerry. ‘All right, we’ve got a chaperone with us to see Mr Plum’s gonads. What do you do now?’

As I describe the process I’d follow during examination, she tells me what I will find, based on the book of scenarios she’s working from. I try to think about Mr Plum’s pretend symptoms instead of the birthday card that still sits in the bin outside, waiting for the rubbish collection tomorrow.

‘So what you’re going to see is testicles that look like a bag of worms. Which is nice. What’s your diagnosis?’