My assistant’s usual colour of choice is black – both for withering stares and for clothing. Today is no different: she’s wearing black jeans with a skin-tight black T-shirt and she has her poker-straight black hair yanked back in a ponytail. Only her skin is as white as the driven snow.

Lija seldom wears a scrap of make-up, but she doesn’t need it as she’s stunningly beautiful without it, despite a slightly vampiric look. Her fringe hangs like a curtain skimming her big blue eyes, and sometimes I wonder how she actually sees through it. She eats cake morning, noon and night and has the skinniest, most sharply angled body I’ve ever seen. I’m most envious of her tiny frame. She has no breasts, no bottom, no hips, no thighs, no cellulite to contend with. Despite being up and down stairs all day looking after my mother, I run towards curves and only have to look at a cake to form another one.

The other thing I like about Lija is that she’s as reliable as the town-hall clock. She lives in the city, not far from our village, and cycles to work along the towpath come rain, hail or snow. Lija has a room in a rented house that she shares with three other Latvian girls. Collectively, they drink like fish and party all night, but she’s never once been late in the two years or more that she’s worked for me. On the rare occasions that she takes a day off, one of her friends always steps up to the plate to stand in for her, so I never have to worry about cover. The other girls are all similarly black and spiky, but slightly less abrasive than Lija.

I boil the kettle again. ‘Mum’s tea’s gone cold,’ I say. ‘Do you want one?’

She nods. ‘I will take the tea to Old Bag. She won’t bangbangbang on ceiling all day if she thinks it will be me.’

That’s another thing in Lija’s favour. Despite her grumbles, she really doesn’t mind helping out with my mother either. I’m not saying that she’s a rival for Florence Nightingale or anything. Far from it: Dr Crippen was probably more charming than Lija. Her bedside manner is somewhat unconventional but she’s right, my mother is suddenly a lot less trouble when Lija is looking after her. Lija stands no messing from Miranda. Which is fine by me.

While Lija stomps upstairs with Mum’s tea, I fill the bucket with hot, soapy water and find two scrubbing brushes. I slip on my comfy old cardigan, pop the brushes into my pockets and go out into the garden.