So, apart from his chronic, bastarding psoriasis, the only other things I’ve ever really had to worry about with Norman are the almost certainly unhealthy amounts of cheese on toast he eats (see problem number one), and the most definitely unhealthy habit of worrying about other people. And by other people, I mean me. Because nobody tells you that when you sign up for single motherhood, do they? That while you’re lying in your big old lonely bed late at night worrying about the rubbish job you’re doing of being their only significant other, it’s highly possible they’re doing the exact same thing over there on the other side of the wall underneath their Ninja Turtle duvet.

When the boys came up with Jax and Norman’s Five-Year Plan to perform at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival when they turned fifteen, they were ten. Which shows you how serious they were about comedy. I mean, how many ten-year-olds do you know with a five-year plan? I’m thirty-two, and the closest I’ve ever come to a five-year plan is signing up for a sofa on Tesco no-interest store credit. Come to think of it, apart from Norman, that sofa is the biggest commitment I’ve ever made.

Their plan was so outlandish I actually believed they just might do it. Because the thing is, despite their age and lack of credentials, as a comedy double act those boys were funny. Honest, proper, not-just-because-you’re-the-mother kind of funny. Jax had a presence, timing and quickness of wit way more developed than a kid his age had any business with, and Norman, well, Norman’s got gravitas. He loves it when I tell him that, like it’s the biggest compliment you could ever get. And maybe it is. I’m no expert. Sometimes I say it just to make him laugh, because that’s the best sound in the world.

“Norman, may I be so bold as to say that your astonishing gravitas is only exceeded by your devastating good looks.” Or something like that. He’s always delighted to hear it, even if it’s out of the blue and it’s clear I’m just filling in a gap until the queue at the bank moves, or waiting around trying to get a couple of soft-boiled eggs over the finish line.

Ever since he was old enough to talk I’d forever be finding Norman out in the back garden rattling off a corny comedy routine in a very serious voice, or reenacting some sketch or another verbatim that he’d memorized from the telly or one of my dad’s old BBC classic-comedy DVDs. It might go something like this.

“Ladies and gentlemen—” with a deep bow to the hedges and hose reel “—may I present to you...me, Norman Foreman! In my exclusive new show, for one night only, Sausages and Gravitas! And now for a few questions, ladies and gentlemen. I ask you, what is a tree’s least favorite month? Septimmmberrr! What do you call a fake noodle? An immmpasta! What do you call an alligator in a vest? An invessstigator! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you very much!”