The landlord’s son, a rather fierce figure in a Sex Pistols T-shirt, is going round selling raffle tickets. We buy several, more out of fear than for the cash prizes. The pub is packed; every table is filled with various teams, and there are even several people sitting up at the bar on stools.

I recognize a few familiar faces: Gary the postman, who kindly rings my doorbell and pops my mail inside on my windowsill to stop Harry ripping open the envelopes; the couple who run the local cafe and always let me have the table tucked away in the corner by the range, to tutor Maya; the local farmer and his wife, who always beams at me gratefully from the heated seats of her Honda Jazz. There’s even Sheila from the post office. It’s funny how quickly it’s beginning to feel more and more like home here.

‘Right then, teams, are you all ready for the first question?’ booms the landlord who, with his deep baritone, has no need for a microphone. Before he was married he used to sing with a leading national opera company in Leeds; local rumour has it that he once sang with Alfie Boe.

A hush descends over the chatter of the pub; I’m almost expecting the lights to go down and the thudding theme music of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? to sound. Heads draw together, as teams confer with grave expressions. And there was I, thinking this was going to be a bit of light-hearted fun. Instead everyone is taking it very seriously.

On the table my phone beeps up a WhatsApp. Picking it up, I glance at the screen to see it’s from Naomi.

‘No mobile phones!’ snarls the landlord and I almost drop mine. ‘If I see a phone, you’re out on your ear.’

Crikey. I quickly put it away without reading the message and glance across at Maya, who shoots me a rather scared look across the table. I see her smartphone in her hand, the illumination of her screen giving her away.

‘I was only looking at TikTok,’ she mutters as a disbelieving jury of locals throw her accusatory looks. I think that’s the quickest I’ve ever seen her put her phone away.

As expected, Valentine excels in the general knowledge round, while Ajay is an expert when it comes to sport. There are not many questions on literature, but still I’m relieved to know the answers. It’s really quite nerve-racking. When Maya correctly answers a history question, Valentine tells her to keep her voice down.

‘Ssshh! We don’t want to be giving away the answers!’ he hisses, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone’s listening.

By half time we’re all rather exhausted and grateful for the free food put on by the pub. It’s like being in an exam, and not quite the fun event I had planned.

‘Sorry – I had no idea,’ I say to Ajay as we’re handed free plates of Yorkshire pudding and gravy. ‘I thought it would be a bit more relaxed.’