The Crooked Cockerel is an old East End pub with a huge chimney coming out of the top and a bus stop just in front. Apparently one of the Kray twins buried a body in the basement once, or something. It’s pretty much bang in the middle from mine and Zeta’s flats, between Victoria Park and Mile End. Our fave little meeting spot – a pub that isn’t too overly done up and does reliably good food without trying to overcomplicate things with a weird hipster menu. Zeta is five years older than me, annoyingly beautiful and the least selfish person on the planet, to the point where I wish she’d put herself first a bit more. Her looks get annoying because men stare at her and I often feel like shouting MOVE ALONG or asking them to pay if they want to look or take pictures of her. She’s not a silent mime artist performing on the streets of Covent Garden, awaiting their approval. Being a full-time paid activist and strategist for a large charity takes up all her time. I know she bottles up a lot of stress, but she also hardly ever complains. She never makes me feel bad for whinging about my smaller problems, though. She doesn’t believe in whataboutery. (Thank god.)

I pop on my beaten-up Converse shoes by the door and, as I walk across the road, the bus arrives just on cue. Love it when that happens. I sit down near the front and notice a youngish mum with a thick ponytail get on with a huge double-seater pushchair. She has some mini carrots cut up into tiny pieces in a little Tupperware box and gives them to her identical-looking twins. She catches my eye and I smile reassuringly at her. She looks tired. One of the babies upturns the box of carrots onto the dirty bus floor. The mum scoops them up and puts them in her big Ikea bag. She looks like she’s about to cry. I always smile at other women with pushchairs because it looks like fucking hard work and I think there is a special place in hell for people who make new parents’ lives even more hellish. Baby karma is real. The mother with the carrots starts playing ‘Baby Shark’ loudly out of her phone speakers and places her phone in the pushchair with the baby. Everyone in the bus is rolling their eyes or shaking their heads, getting agitated at the fact that we all have to sit there and listen to the song. She has zoned out, looking out through the window, her eyes glazed over. She is clearly beyond giving a fuck what people think of her on a public bus.

When I arrive at the pub, Zeta is outside smoking, in a floral dress and small denim jacket and Doc Marten boots. When she sees me, she outstretches her arms for a hug.

‘Ol!’ She ruffles my hair as I wrap my arms around her tiny waist. ‘I’m so happy to see you!’