I went out to pace the garden to see if getting back to nature would help me think, and retraced our conversation in my head, trying to figure out exactly what Wolfie might have heard. I dug up some carrots (not ready; re-buried), watered the garden (also Ray, just a bit; a genuine mistake, but not sorry), and hosed down the patio before I gave in to the nagging voice on my shoulder that, if I’m honest, had been trying to get my attention since the minute Mickey had taken his fatal swan dive.

I’d barely had a drink for over a month, hadn’t even really wanted one for most of that time, so I figured what’d be the harm of a quick medicinal half just to regroup and steady the nerves.

No, really, I did.

I fell pretty spectacularly off the wagon within about twenty minutes of plotting up at a corner table in the pub for some quiet reflection (I told myself). Because if a month of not drinking had taught me anything, it was that doing a bit of good, honest contemplation really is as helpful as it’s cracked up to be. With my guard well and truly down, I was confident I’d evolved enough to be able to have a civilised drink (two at the most) and come up with a solution to this problem. I mean, hadn’t I come through for all those strangers in the paper? Hadn’t I dug deep and made a difference? Hadn’t the new and improved Danny Mulberry shown that he actually could get something right? Damn straight, absolutely – I told myself after the first measured sip of my sensible half-pint. Surely I could handle one small, angry teenager and an awkward bit of eavesdropping?

But even as the new and improved me was suggesting gently that this could actually be a little bit more serious, it seemed old Danny hadn’t quite left the building. Too late I remembered he’d always been a stubborn bastard. It didn’t take much more than some lukewarm encouragement from the barman and a couple of don’t be a soft bastards before the suggestion of getting a proper-sized drink into me hit the mark, to the resounding approval of a motley collection of men I’d once fancied might be my friends, but who even in the heady mess of the reunion that followed I realised were something slightly less.

When I felt a soft tap on my shoulder, it was with genuine relief that I turned around to see the six of them there. Dom, George and Gentleman. Or Jom, Dorge and General Jam, as I greeted them loudly and enthusiastically while attempting to blink them into a more manageable trio.

With George on the job, I knew there was no point trying to deny I was completely and irrevocably smashed. That is, I was drunk enough to have tripped over a bar stool and spilled a pint down myself, but not too drunk that I couldn’t decipher the looks on the three amigos’ faces. It was disapproval decked out in its Sunday best, and even in my diminished state, I absolutely knew I deserved it.