“Well, that sounds perfect,” I said when I saw Norman’s face as Leonard read out the comments from his laptop. “Because neither will we.”

We were relying on the word of the monthly online North Devon gig guide Leonard had found during his research that the so-called open mic nights at the Noble Goat were even a going concern. But, as Leonard said, if you can’t trust the internet, who can you trust?

Show us what you’ve got! Muddiford’s Best Open Mic Night, Last Tuesday of the month. Sign up on the night. Registration £5.

While I was busy wondering what the possibility was of there being more than one open mic night in a place the size of a postage stamp, a couple of other thoughts were also jostling for my attention. Firstly, maybe the lack of reviews on Trip Advisor meant that Muddiford’s Best Open Mic Night wasn’t all that popular, which could only be a good thing for Norman’s first try. But then, secondly, what if it was the social event of the month and the entire town showed up every last Tuesday night of the month to see what anyone crazy and brave enough to get up had “got.”

As Norman heaved my father’s old suit jacket over his narrow shoulders and I watched him gather up his pile of paper scraps and Post-it notes I sent out one of my silent telepathic messages. You’ve got this, Norman. I’ll do the crazy, you do the brave. But I knew I was no substitute for what was missing from Norman’s act and, as I searched his face, there was no sign he’d got the message.

Way down deep in my gut, I felt a sharp, sudden tug, which came and went so quickly I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t imagined it. But when I rested my hand on a certain place, there was no mistaking the warmth of the scar through my jeans.

While I’d spent the rest of the afternoon lying back on a pillow being asphyxiated by the smell of mold and worrying about the police showing up on the doorstep, courtesy of Dan McLachlan, I’d listened to Leonard and Norman adding to their wad of Post-it notes and chatting about Norman’s psoriasis. After a handful of kindly, well-meaning questions and a curious inspection of a few scabs, Leonard leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression.

“You know, I know it sounds odd, Norman, old chap, but my Iris swears black and blue that a dose of cold tea can fix everything that ails a person,” I’d heard him say. “Bites, burns, constipation, cold sores—you name it. Cold tea for everything, that woman, inside and out.”

A little later Norman asked me quietly if we could buy a big box of tea bags the next day, knowing full well it would do no good, but wanting so much for Leonard to feel like he was helping. Keep calm and drink tea.

Naturally, Leonard had Google-mapped our route and after a makeshift dinner of Pot Noodles and Ritz crackers in the room, at 6:15 p.m. sharp we left Toad Hall and headed off to Norman’s solo comedy debut.