Goodness only knows this room needs a bit of a makeover. I don’t think it’s been decorated since about 1972. Some of the pastel-pink, flower-sprigged wallpaper is curling and there’s a damp patch on the ceiling that says we may well have a leak in the roof. Not the first. I don’t even dare to go into the loft these days. To be honest, the whole of Canal House could do with a bit of tender loving care. It hasn’t had any money spent on it in years, simply because there hasn’t been any to spare.

I am forty-one years young and this is the only home I’ve ever known. I was born here, in this very room, and, at the rate I’m going, I will more than likely die here.

‘I could bring in some wallpaper samples.’

‘Not listening.’ My mum puts her fingers in her ears. ‘La, la, la. Not listening.’

I wouldn’t mind if Mum was actually really ancient, but she’s only seventy years old. That’s all. Surely seventy is the new fifty. She should be out there having the time of her life. Yet the concept of the University of the Third Age has, unfortunately, passed her by. It’s so frustrating that she seems to have given up on life and is content just to lie here. Even more frustrating is the fact that she seems to revel in it: she spends her day languishing, watching soap operas and quizzes. Or home-renovation programmes which are never destined to help this particular home.

Before I can remonstrate with her any further, I hear the back door open, and a voice travels up the stairs from the hall.

‘Is me!’

That’s my assistant, Lija. The café isn’t open for a few hours yet but Lija has come in early today to help me scrub down the tables and chairs that have over-wintered in the garden. The first thing on a long list of glamorous tasks that we need to do before we start heading into the busy summer season. Then we won’t get a minute to do anything.

‘I have to go,’ I say.

‘My tea’s gone cold,’ Mum grumbles.

There are times when I’d swear she spends all day thinking up small ways in which to torture me. If she’s woken up in a particularly belligerent mood, she often waits until I’m at the bottom of the stairs to call me back for some little instruction she might have forgotten, or to plump up her pillows.

I take her cup. ‘I’ll bring you a nice fresh one.’

‘Not as much milk this time. It tastes like rice pudding when you make it.’