That unmistakeable sixties sound of rattling drums fills the air, and I’m glad to be here. Ingrid returns with a small cordless vacuum in her hand and zaps up the crumbs on the table like a Ghostbuster.

‘How about a game of Trivial Pursuit?’ Ingrid asks, leaning her weight onto one hip and resting the nozzle of the vacuum on her shoulder pretty damn stylishly. ‘I’m terrible at it, but I like to try my best. I’m much better at Pictionary—’

‘Oh, I love Pictionary,’ I butt in. ‘Ah, of course. We need a fourth person.’

I look to the unused chair, the cage that nobody has sat upon this evening. If Jack had gone to work that day, he’d be sitting in it now. We’d be about to play Pictionary with our charming neighbours, or perhaps be having a light-hearted debate about whether we should play Trivial Pursuit instead. Jack had a love/hate relationship with board games. When I tried to suggest a game of Scrabble in the local pub, he’d told me about how competitive his mum and his brothers were and how Christmas Day always ended in arguments. Apparently Jack and his dad would slip away from the dining table, unnoticed, and play a few rounds of poker together in the study. My heart sinks as I think about John Carmichael and what he might do this Christmas when Trish stops at nothing to get the brown Arts and Literature cheese. Where will he go?

There’s a knock on the door, a friendly rat-tata-tat-tat.

‘Ah, that’ll be Neil,’ Giles says, jumping up to answer.

Keen to put a face to the owner of the noisy suitcase, I stand and hold out my hand as Giles introduces us. Neil is so tall he ducks to enter the flat. His handshake is surprisingly warm and full of gusto. He’s older than I imagined, perhaps older than my dad, with curly grey hair and a gentle but crisp clear voice. He reminds me of my old English teacher, who managed to make even Coriolanus interesting. Before he removes his coat, he reaches inside a pocket and removes a large Toblerone. Ingrid applauds and Giles jumps with delight.

‘He never fails!’ Giles adds, patting Neil on the back.

‘Duty-free,’ Neil tells me. ‘Are you as crazy about chocolate as these two?’

‘I don’t know how crazy they are,’ I say, ‘but I’m pretty fucking crazy.’

‘And we love her!’ Ingrid cries. ‘Now, Neil, you’ve arrived right on time. We’re about to play Pictionary.’

And we do.

We play.

We laugh.

We disagree.

We laugh some more.

Giles draws a rocket and we all think it’s a penis. The harder he tries to convince us that it isn’t, drawing more lines and zigzags and buttons, the more it looks like a penis exploding.

Oh. How. We. Laugh.