We put Friday to bed in the spare room and made up a sort of cot for him. He was quite happy sleeping almost anywhere as long as he had his polar bear with him. He'd stayed over at Melanie's house and once at Mrs Tiggy-Winkle's, which was warm and snug and smelt of moss, sticks and washing powder. He had even slept on Treasure Island during a visit there I made last year to sort out the Ben Gunn goat problem – Long John had talked him to sleep, something he was very good at.

'Now then,' said Landen as we went to our room, 'a man's needs are many—'

'Let me guess! You want me to rub your back?'

'Please. Right there in the small where you used to do it so well. I've really missed that.'

'Nothing else?'

'No, nothing. Why, did you have something in mind?'

I giggled as he pulled me closer. I breathed in his scent. I could remember pretty well what he looked like and how he sounded, but not his smell. That was something that was instantly recognisable as soon I pressed my face into the folds of his shirt, and it brought back memories of courting, and picnics, and passion.

'I like your short hair,' said Landen.

'Well, I don't,' I replied, 'and if you ruffle it once more like that I may feel inclined to poke you in the eye.'

We lay back on the bed and he pulled my sweatshirt very slowly over the top of my head. It caught on my watch and there was an awkward moment as he tugged gently, trying to keep the romance of the moment. I couldn't help it and started giggling.

'Oh, do please be serious, Thursday!' he said, still pulling at the sweatshirt. I giggled some more and he joined in, then asked whether I had any scissors and finally removed the offending garment. I started to undo the buttons of his shirt and he nuzzled my neck, something that gave me a pleasant tingly sensation. I tried to flip off my shoes but they were lace-ups and when one finally came off it shot across the room and hit the mirror on the far wall, which fell off and smashed.

'Bollocks!' I said. 'Seven years' bad luck.'

'That was a only a two-year mirror,' explained Landen. 'You don't get the full seven-year jobs from the pound shop.'

I tried to get the other shoe off and slipped, sinking Landen's shin – which wasn't a problem as he had lost a leg in the Crimea and I'd done it several times before. But there wasn't a hollow 'bong' sound as usual.

'New leg?'

'Yeah! Do you want to see?'