I went upstairs, where Hamlet and Emma were arguing. She seemed to be saying that her 'dear Admiral' needed her more than anything, and Hamlet said that she should come and live with him at Elsinore and 'to hell with Ophelia'. Emma replied that this really wasn't practical and then Hamlet made an extremely long and intractable speech which I think meant that nothing in the real world was simple or slick and he lamented the day he ever left his play, and that he was sure Ophelia had discussed country matters with Horatio when his back was turned. Then Emma got confused and thought he was impugning her Horatio, and when he explained that it was his friend Horatio she changed her mind and said she would come with him to Elsinore, but then Hamlet thought perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all and he made another long speech until even Emma got bored and she crept downstairs for a beer and returned before he'd even noticed she had gone. After a while he just talked himself to a standstill without having made any decision – which was just as well as there wasn't a play for him to return to.

I was just pondering whether finding a cloned Shakespeare was actually going to be possible when I heard a tiny wail. I went back downstairs to find Friday blinking at me from the door to the living room, looking tousled and a little sleepy.

'Sleep well, little man?'

'Sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit,' he replied, which I took to mean: 'I have slept very well and now require a snack to see me through the next two hours.'

I walked back into the kitchen, something niggling away at my mind. Something that Mum had said. Something that Stiggins had said. Or maybe Emma? I made Friday a chocolate-spread sandwich, which he proceeded to smear about his face.

'I think you'll find I have just the colour for you,' said my mother, finding a shade of grey varnish that suited Melanie's black fur. 'Goodness – what strong nails!'

'I don't dig as much as I used to,' replied Melanie with an air of nostalgia. Trafford doesn't like it. He thinks it makes the neighbours talk.'

My heart missed a beat and I shouted out, quite spontaneously:

'AHHHHHHHHH!'

My mother jumped, painted a line of nail varnish up Melanie's hand and upset the bottle on to her polka-dot dress.

'Look what you've made me do!' she scolded. Melanie didn't look very happy either.

'Posh, Murray Posh, Daisy Posh, Daisy Mutlar – why did you . . . mention Daisy Mutlar a few minutes ago?'

'Well, because I thought you'd be annoyed she was still around.'