‘I’m sorry, I know that’s rather pouring cold water on things, but I’m afraid we need to be sensible.’

Disappointment stabs. I know she’s only being realistic, but still.

‘But what about the opening? We need to do something to mark the occasion.’

‘Well, yes, obviously,’ she nods and I can see she’s thinking. ‘I know!’ Evelyn claps her hands with satisfaction. ‘How about a raffle?’

‘A raffle?’

‘Yes, a raffle. They were always very popular when I was a head teacher.’

I like Evelyn. I really do. But I’m getting the feeling we’re not on the same page.

‘I was thinking rather more than gift vouchers and a food hamper.’

‘Such as?’ she asks.

Rather sniffily, I can’t help thinking. Maybe it’s a head-teacher thing: the ‘my way or the highway’. In staff meetings with Mr Godfrey, our head teacher, his answer to any suggestion deviating from his plan was always, ‘No, but . . .’

Only this time I’m determined not to back down.

‘Well, I’ve had some ideas, and I thought, what about a dance?’

‘A dance?’

‘Yes, like they used to do in the fifties. They were so popular – everyone used to go to them. Valentine has told me so many stories about how much fun they were and I think that’s what everyone needs, don’t they? Some fun. I mean, who doesn’t love dancing?’

As I say it, I think briefly of my ex-husband David, which only serves to spur me on even more.

‘I thought we could hire a band, and I’ve been doing some research and found a wonderful six-piece that can do both swing and rock-and-roll . . . We could even have a little competition to see which couple are the best dancers – it could be like Strictly.’

‘Now let’s not get carried away,’ Evelyn cautions.

‘But why can’t we get carried away?’ I argue, feeling frustrated.

‘Because our finances are stretched as they are,’ she replies.

‘We could sell tickets,’ I suggest.

‘But wasn’t the whole point that the village hall would be free for everyone to use, whatever their budget?’

That is a good point and momentarily it takes the wind out of my sails.

‘Absolutely. You’re right, of course,’ I nod. ‘I realize you’re only being sensible, Evelyn.’

She shifts now in her seat and I see her shoulders square in righteousness.

‘And it’s good to be sensible,’ I continue, ‘only I’m sick of being sensible.’ No sooner has the wind dropped than it picks up again. ‘Sensible gets you to the station on time, so you don’t ever miss a train. It gets you ironed shirts and comfortable shoes, and savings for a rainy day. It gets you mornings without hangovers, and waistbands that never need unbuttoning, and days spent at the beach sitting in the shade. But what it doesn’t get you, Evelyn, is a life.’

And now I’m not talking just about a dance – I’m talking about myself.

‘Because life is also about spontaneity and fun, and making mistakes and doing the wrong thing. It’s about blisters and sunburn, and that extra slice of pizza. It’s about the absolute riot of an evening that you had drinking that bottle of wine – hell, make it two bottles and throw in a couple of chasers—’