Instead of letting himself in the front, Andrew walks down the side of the house to a small gate and into a square back garden. A security light pings on to reveal a tiny patio and a blank of grass surrounded by a high wooden fence. Andrew walks to the patio and bends to look directly beneath the security light where there is an empty plastic bowl, then he turns and crosses the garden – it’s a tiny garden and the security light bathes it in white. He opens the door to a very small, neat shed.

He emerges after a second with a plastic bag in his hand. He goes back to the bowl, turns the bag inside out over it, and something small and dark drops down. He screws the bag up in one hand and returns to the path, to enter the front of the house. Within a minute, he appears in the kitchen and turns on the light but doesn’t draw the curtains over the patio doors, so I can watch him moving around and making himself supper. His kitchen is as plain and sparse as the garden: cupboard doors in that brown, fake-country-kitchen style, cheap wooden laminate on the floor. As far as I can tell, it is devoid of ornament apart from a few fridge magnets that hold up photos of him and Ruth. Despite that, there is no sign of cohabitation; no hairbrush discarded on a kitchen counter, no female-sized wellies or garden shoes next to a pair of battered men’s trainers by the patio door.

Andrew moves around, opening and closing cupboards, puts a pan of water on to boil – I’d bet my life, if I had one, that he’s having noodles or pasta. While the water boils, he gets a bowl and fills it with cornflakes, slopping a bit of milk over them before standing by the patio doors and looking out at the garden while he eats them. Cornflakes as a starter: we’ve all done it.