‘Oh,’ says one, deliberately blocking my way as I climb the stairs, ‘you’re the boy next door, aren’t you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

He’s an obvious queen – a tight-fitting grey suit, cinched in at the waist, a bright red shirt with a huge collar, large specs on a chain and woofy grey hair that is probably a wig.

‘Upstairs.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thought so.’ I try to sidestep, but he mirrors the move. ‘You might want to pop in and pay your condolences.’

‘Sorry?’

‘To the grieving widow.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I … I don’t really know her.’

‘No, you don’t, and that’s the trouble with you young ones, you don’t make the slightest effort.’ He’s had a few drinks, and he’s gesturing with long, skinny hands, covered in signet rings. ‘How long have you been here? Weeks. And not once have you popped down to offer a bit of tea and sympathy. And him with his husband barely cold in the ground.’

I’m losing track of this, and mumble something about being tired and wanting to go to bed, but he won’t let me past.

‘You’re coming with me.’ He grabs my wrist, and I’m about to shake him off when I realise that it would be very stupid to grapple with a drunk old man on a concrete stairwell, and I can really do without broken hips on my conscience. So I follow meekly along the second-floor landing.

‘Michael! You have a late arrival!’ he shouts, walking straight through the open door.

Another old man appears in the doorway, wearing a sludge-green cardigan and a check shirt with a brown tie, and a pair of very worn carpet slippers.

‘Who is it?’ He looks exhausted.

‘Look what I found hanging around on the stairs, dear.’ He ushers me in. ‘Go on. Introduce yourself.’

I put out a hand and say, ‘Hello, I’m Robert. I live upstairs.’

‘Oh,’ says the old man, ‘I know, I mean I’ve seen you coming and going. How are you getting on?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ I can’t think of anything else to say, and I’m about to leave when the other one says, ‘This young gentleman wanted to say how sorry he was for your loss. Didn’t you.’ It’s not a question.

‘Oh, er, yes,’ I mumble, although I’m not quite sure who’s died.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ says the old man. ‘Will you come in for a drink? There’s still some sherry left.’

‘Sherry?’ screeches the Other One, pushing me in. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Young people don’t drink sherry. Give him some gin.’

I don’t drink gin either, but I don’t like to be awkward, and so I accept the gin (warm) and tonic (flat) that is pressed into my hand.

‘I’m so sorry,’ says the old man, and I think he’s apologising for the lack of ice. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Michael, and this one,’ he says, nodding towards his friend, who is leaning in the doorway with his arms folded, looking down his long nose at me, ‘is Stephen. Don’t worry. His bark is much worse than his bite.’