Which is where I stayed, only waking up sporadically to catch sight of the bulldog clip of letters lying on the floor where I’d tossed them and immediately closing my eyes tightly again. Many hours later, when through a fuzzy, sleep-dulled head I heard the distant slam of the front door and the sound of George calling out to Gentleman, I wondered if sleeping through the entire day might actually be a pretty genius solution to all my problems. But then the low, gentle tone of Dom’s voice carried across the garden from somewhere in the house (Lou’s room?) and I felt the now familiar lurch of guilt.

I looked at the time: nearly four o’clock. I lay there for a while longer, trying to ignore the vague pulsing of my bladder and doing my best not to look at those letters. But, say what you want about me, I generally accept when I’m beat, and I knew they already had me on the ropes before I’d read a single word. And while Pete’s tenuous employment situation was definitely part of it, the thought of having a bona fide, guilt-free reason to keep myself busy (and scarce) was also pretty persuasive.

I swung my legs off the bed straight into my trainers and threw a hoodie over the previous day’s T-shirt and joggers, which had conveniently doubled as the previous night’s pyjamas. I scooped up the letters, grabbed two pens from an old baked bean tin on the windowsill, and one of George’s discarded exercise books (which I’d used to write a list of what I was going to plant in the so far still-not-happening veggie plot), and shoved it all into a crumpled-up Tesco bag I found under the bench. Not quite as on trend as Pete in his nice suit and leather postman’s satchel, but it’d do.

Keeping one eye on the house, I pulled the shed door closed behind me. I could hear George’s foghorn upstairs, so I knew it was probably safe to sneak down the side and make my getaway, but at the last minute I realised it was going to be a long and painful walk to the Lamb and Flag with a full bladder on board. During the ensuing quick pit stop against the hedge, I fancied I heard a faint judgemental tut from behind the bushes. Get in line, fella, I thought.

‘Get in line, Ray.’

The hedge was dead still, not so much as a quiver as I slipped out of the side gate and on to the street.

It was a funny old evening, sitting at a table in a quiet corner of the pub with a pint instead of hanging off the bar on my usual stool. Both pens and the exercise book stayed in the bottom of the Tesco bag (which I discovered I’d previously used to dispose of some old teabags), and by the time my glass was empty and I’d read every letter twice, a dense layer of unease had settled in my gut. There was something about having those strangers’ problems literally in my hands that made me feel dishonest and silly and totally unqualified, and I was already heartily regretting having allowed charming Pete Barker into my shed and life.