I don’t reply for a while, because he’s obviously forgotten that I was due back from my holiday, in fact he’s probably forgotten that I went on holiday at all, and instead I concentrate on opening my post. Most of it goes straight into the recycling, the rest is shoved into the ‘important but boring’ box for later filing, when I’m feeling less ill/anxious. There’s only one letter with a handwritten address, and that just says ‘Robert’, no address or stamp. I can’t think of anyone who would write, rather than texting, emailing or phoning me, so I’m quite curious.

It’s from Michael downstairs, and it comes as a bit of a surprise because I realise that I haven’t thought about him once while I was away; if he had been vaporised in my absence I might never have noticed.

There’s a small sheet of writing paper inside, folded in half, and it just says: ‘Hope you had a lovely holiday, please pop down for a cuppa sometime, I have a favour to ask.’

I can’t think of anything I could do for Michael other than lend him money or help him shift furniture, and it better hadn’t be the former because the holiday has cleaned me out for the rest of the month.

‘Oh, you do look well,’ says Michael. ‘Spain, wasn’t it?’ I can’t remember even telling him I was going on holiday, let alone where, but I suppose he heard Stuart and me talking/arguing about it before we went. ‘No need to ask if the sun was shining. How nice to see a bit of colour in your cheeks.’

I’m feeling pretty grey, actually, but I’m not immune to compliments, and this cheers me up quite a lot. He looks older than I remember.

‘So, how did you get on?’ he asks, and I’m on the point of pouring it all out when suddenly I feel quite ashamed of the hash I’ve made of my holiday and I just say, ‘Great, thanks, it was great.’

‘I bet it was,’ he says. ‘We had some lovely holidays in Spain.’ I remember the Spanish lady doll in the living room. ‘God, the men are gorgeous.’

I didn’t actually see very many Spanish men in Sitges, because it was full of all the people that we see in the London clubs all the time.

‘So, you wanted to ask me something,’ I say.

‘Oh …’ He sighs. ‘You got my note, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘I just wondered if you wouldn’t mind storing a few bits and pieces for me.’

I say ‘of course’ without thinking about it, but then start wondering what he’s on about.

‘It’s just that I won’t have too much space in the new place, and I’m very reluctant to just chuck it all away. It’s only a couple of cardboard boxes. Well, three, actually, but they’re not huge. I know it’s a big imposition because I’m sure your place is full as it is.’

I realise that Michael’s never been up to my flat since I moved in. Perhaps he was familiar with it from previous tenants.