There was a time when I thought Dom was the luckiest guy in the world, with his medical degree, his perfect wife, a brilliant kid, and a sensible head that’s taken him on just the right path to a charmed life and a three-million-pound house in Belsize Park. But four years ago, his luck ran out when his lovely, kind, beautiful wife died. And Kath really was perfect, except for that one mutated BRCA gene and the fleeting lapse in judgement when she’d chosen me first. Which lasted about five minutes before all three of us realised the huge mistake she’d made. Far from being jealous, though, I was sadly and wistfully delighted when my best friend and the best girl in the world ended up together. Because together was exactly where they belonged, and I still got to go along for the ride. It was a win for everyone.

Now, though, if I sneak a look at Dom when George asks if Kath can still see him from heaven, or when he wears that green paisley scarf that he probably doesn’t think I know was hers, or when I see him welling up at a dog-eared, tomato-puree-covered page in a recipe book, I think to myself, actually, maybe I’m the lucky one.

‘Danny’s drunk, Danny’s drunk, Danny’s drunk as a skunk!’ George buzzed around my legs, shrieking like a banshee and doing his best to get a reaction. I pushed off from the wall and gave it my best, because we’ve got a deal, me and Georgie.

‘Oi, how very dare you? Less of the skunk, me old mucker! I’m drunk as a monk and much better looking, I’ll have you know!’ George easily dodged my pretend swipe and collapsed on the floor, laughing his posh little head off. I thought how nice it would be to just slide down there with him for a couple of minutes.

‘George, will you please go up and get into your pyjamas. NOW. I’m not going to ask you again.’ Dom would, though, and we all knew it. Me, George – who’d long ago worked out exactly who was the ringmaster of this circus – and even Gentleman, who’d wandered up the hallway to give me the canine version of an eye-roll.

But Dom wasn’t really paying attention to George; he was looking at me with a slight frown and he leaned in closer to speak, like I was a child – kindly, gently, and in words of modest syllables.

‘Listen, mate. I think you’d better get ready for a bit of a . . . surprise.’

‘Eh?’ I machine-gun blinked. ‘A surprise? A birthday surprise?’

The thing is, over the years I’ve been treated to more than one visit from women that, in the nicest possible way (mostly), I’d never expected to see again. So it wasn’t exactly unchartered territory. I got ready to brace myself to face whoever was lying in wait and whatever she wanted to throw at me. Metaphorically. Although it did occur to me that a kitchen might not be the very best place to get reacquainted with a woman potentially scorned.