I’ve never quite understood how Mike manages to attract the opposite sex as easily as he does; he’s a nice enough guy, but I wouldn’t rank him as any more than average in the looks department. In my less charitable moments, I sometimes wonder whether his decision to work at the hospital was less to do with a desire to help people in their hour of need, and more because of the smorgasbord of young women that would surround him. There are certainly a few people I can no longer look in the eye if I bump into them at work, having come across them barely clothed in the kitchen of our flat after spending the night with Mike. In the spirit of total honesty, I should probably confess that I’ve also slept with Mike, but it was just the once, a year or so after we’d moved into the flat. We’d both had a fair amount to drink and I was curious to find out what his secret was. He didn’t take a lot of persuading, and the sex was OK if my slightly hazy memory serves me right but, after an extremely awkward conversation the following morning, we both agreed that we worked better as friends and we’ve never mentioned it since.

‘So, tell me more about the lecherous doctor,’ Mike prompts as I settle myself on the sofa next to him with my plate of lasagne. The best thing about living with him is that he’s a superb cook and is fairly territorial about the tiny kitchen, so I rarely have to worry about food.

‘His name is Luke,’ I tell him as I load my fork and bring it to my mouth. The pasta may be a little crispy at the edges, but there’s nothing wrong with the flavour. ‘He’s moved down from Milton Keynes to look after his mother, who sounds like she’s probably suffering from dementia.’

‘Altruistic of him.’

‘I’m not sure he has a choice. He told me in the pub that he’s an only child.’

I regret the words as soon as I’ve said them, but it’s too late; Mike is already pursing his lips in disapproval. As the youngest of five, he thinks only children are unnatural, growing up with no concept of hand-me-downs and an inherent inability to share because they’re not used to it. We’ve spent many a booze-fuelled evening hotly debating this point, as there’s absolutely no empirical evidence to support his theory, but he won’t be moved.

‘I know, I know,’ I tell him soothingly. ‘Let’s not do this again.’