The two men topple to the floor, where they begin to struggle and writhe. Awful grunting noises fill my quiet house.

Watts starts saying, ‘Gerroff me, yer poof,’ and ‘Fooking hippie,’ and shouting other things about Jesse Marlon, awful things.

Meanwhile, I stand by and scream in a reedy voice that sounds ridiculous – posh and flutey – even to my own ears:

‘Jesse Marlon, will you please, please, stop!’ Another part of my brain registers the grappling youths, and thinks of marbled loins and that ridiculous naked wrestling scene in Women in Love. I also think how evenly matched, physically, and even alike, the two young men are, before dismissing the thought, because I do not want even to compare Colin – the low-life… rapist! – with the godlike Jesse Marlon.

Eventually, having held Colin Watts down for a count often, Jesse Marlon climbs off.

Colin Watts has a nosebleed. ‘Well, thank heavens for that!’ I exclaim. ‘Why do you men all think that violence is the answer to everything!’

I go into the kitchen, put the kettle on, fetch a tea-towel and come back quickly, in case they start hitting each other again.

The men aren’t looking at each other.

‘Well, now, Swampy here’ (pointing at Jesse Marlon) ‘has stopped assaulting me, I can ask you, do you wannit in the barn, or the woodshed?’ Colin says, mopping his nose.

‘Want what?’ ask me and Jesse Marlon simultaneously.

‘The wood,’ Colin answers, as if we are both simple. He hands me back the red-stained tea-towel. Even though it’s one of my favourite soft Irish linen ones, which are brilliant for polishing glasses, I say, ‘No no, keep it.’ He lights another Rothman.

‘Mrs Musgrove, oy would’ve mentioned it down the shop, but what with the arrests this morning… Your old man left a message on moy mobile. Ordered two loads of wood. Oy only toike cash, and unless you want me to make trouble for your toy boy here, oy think you better pay me for three loads ’stead of two.’

He draws on his cigarette, and he says something under his breath about how JM has ‘got wood, too’, at which Jesse Marlon hisses, for some reason cross, ‘Just shut up, will you, you fucking nonce, or I’ll deck you.’

And then Colin Watts says, ‘If you ever so much as touch me again, sonny boy, you’ll end up in prison, and oy don’t need to tell you why,’ and Jesse Marlon scowls at him.

Obviously, Pierre had called Colin Watts, and ordered some wood. I can’t think why, as we usually have it delivered from our regular supplier, who can be relied on to sell us bone-dry tinder that goes up like Buncefield Oil depot rather than the saturated new pine he saves for Londoners like the Flemings and the Kinmonths.

I tell Colin we (as in me and Pierre, not me and Jesse Marlon) don’t actually need it – we were long on wood as it happened – but as he was here, could he put it as neatly as possible please in the barn.