I’d eaten dinner at six o’clock on the dot every night that week. I’d even paused the middle of a TV thriller, at the moment the main character was literally hanging off a cliff, because it was dinner time.

I was feeling stressed about being late to cook and eat a meal by myself, despite having nothing to do the rest of the evening, except yet more paperwork that could quite happily wait until the morning.

What was to stop me having dinner at seven? Or eight?

Or how about this wild suggestion – I could order a takeaway!

I could stay in town, and go to a restaurant alone. Without telling anybody.

I could do whatever I liked.

‘Hello, Ollie? Are you all right?’ Alec asked, waving a hand in front of my face.

‘Yes, thank you.’ I grabbed my bag and cardigan. ‘And no, I’ve got no plans whatsoever, so to be honest, I’m absolutely fantastic!’

I had dinner at six forty-five, because I was getting hungry. I ate a giant slice of coconut cake while the pasta boiled, because I felt like it, and I left my dirty plate in the living room all night, because I could, and no one was there to moan about it.

I was free.

I was free.

The following day, still simmering with possibilities, I met my first new reader for an hour-long introductory session in the Bigley Bottom library. ReadUp coaching was always held in public places, for safeguarding reasons, so I’d reserved us a table in the computer area.

I’d spoken to Trev on the phone, and recognised him immediately by how he nervously stepped into the library, eyeing the room as though it might detect an imposter. It wasn’t the books he needed to be wary of, but their fearsome guardian, Irene Jenkins, library manager at large.

She’d been initially snooty about the prospect of me meeting with ‘illiterates’ in her precious library. I’d pointed out that the whole purpose of a library was to encourage people to read, and she snapped back something about how her library was for those who appreciated and respected literature; it wasn’t a hang-out for school drop-outs. A quick chat with one of the directors for Notts libraries, who’d presented ReadUp with an award only the previous year, soon reminded her that this was not, in fact, her library but a public building, and we were welcome to further the literacy skills of local residents whenever the library was open.

‘Ms Tennyson, I believe your person is here.’ Irene Jenkins sniffed, glaring over the top of her bifocals.

In the hope of avoiding any interaction between Trev and Irene, I’d already rushed over to meet him, hoping my friendliest smile would deflect her waves of distaste at Trev’s tatty tracksuit topped off with a bald head covered in a skull tattoo.