We pass Valentine’s bungalow, but it’s later than usual and he’s not there. On the way back I call in at the post office to pick up a package. The driver left a card to say no one was in. Which isn’t true; I was hiding upstairs and the builders were downstairs, but I didn’t hear anyone knocking. Which isn’t surprising, considering that I can barely hear myself think, with all the deafening racket they’re making.

Sheila, the postmistress, is forthright and friendly, as usual. Since moving in, I’ve had to pick up quite a few deliveries. At first it was all brisk hellos and brief exchanges about the weather, until one day she saw me tying Harry up outside and insisted that I bring him in.

‘It says “No dogs”, but I’ll make an exception for this old boy. Far too cold for him to be tied up outside in this weather. What’s his name?’

Now our visits to the post office are never complete without her coming out from behind the counter and fussing over him. Apparently Sheila’s son is stationed with troops overseas and loves dogs; ‘Wait till my Peter meets you,’ she always says, as if somehow fussing over Harry brings her closer to him.

But it’s not just Sheila. Since beginning our daily walks around the neighbourhood I’ve started noticing the effect that Harry seems to have on people. When I lived in London, striking up a conversation with a random stranger would probably have got you arrested, but here people often stop me in the street to ask after him, or wave and say hello. Like Nigel, the local window cleaner, who recently shimmied down a ladder to tell me about his hip replacement and suggest hydrotherapy for Harry’s arthritis – ‘It works wonders’. Or the street sweeper in the graveyard who lost his English Bulldog, Dolly, last year and always lights up when he sees Harry. ‘Dolly used to sleep on a velvet cushion – like royalty, she was; my wife used to give her all the best bits of the Sunday roast, whereas I got left with the scraps.’ Funny how I soon know everything there is to know about Dolly and the state of his marriage, but we’ve never got round to knowing each other’s names.

After collecting my package we come upon the local farmer on his tractor, clearing the lane and gritting, so instead we take a detour home. Walking through the housing estate on the other side of the graveyard, I immediately spot him in the front garden. Bundled up in a thick coat and yellow headphones, he’s building a snowman.

‘Hello, Stanley.’

He stops what he’s doing and eyes me suspiciously.

‘I like your snowman.’

He spots Harry and immediately his face brightens. With his gloves full of snow, he makes his way over to the gate to see us, careful to step only in his previous footprints. I notice he’s wearing Spider-Man wellies.

Harry wags his tail to see Stanley and pushes his nose through the gate.