I continued towards home, using my stick to test the depth of puddles and propel my steps faster. The gorse was a rich dark green, almost black in places. Black and thick and vibrant in its success. There are not many plants that survive so completely here. The willowherb, with its red tendrils and cotton-wool seed head, when the weather is better, but not now, not in December. This time of year the gorse dominates completely. And still the van was there.

I arrived at the lighthouse to find him, the Asda man, sitting in his driver’s seat eating a sandwich. Astonished does not begin to cover it. What was he doing there, parked outside my lighthouse, when he knows I don’t like to be surprised, when anywhere else in the world would have been less of an imposition?

His window was closed and his door shut, so when he started trying to speak to me I had no idea what he was saying. I could see his lips moving and I started backing away, but he wound the window down and called out:

‘Hello, Freida. How are you?’

I was speechless.

‘I’m a bit early,’ he said.

Which was true.

‘Give me five,’ he said, ‘and I’ll bring your delivery in.’

So, there we were. I nodded, turned, and made my way indoors. I can only suppose, looking back, that it was my shock at him sitting there eating his sandwich that made me forget to lock the door, but that’s what I did. I walked inside, leaving the front door open.

So perhaps you can guess what happened a few minutes later. I was making myself a cup of tea, standing facing the kettle, which was just starting to whistle when I heard this noise behind me. In my kitchen. Right inside my kitchen. So I turned round, and there he was. It was the first time anyone but me had stood in my kitchen for over a decade. I kept thinking – how can you be here when I didn’t invite you here? But it didn’t seem to have occurred to him that he was doing anything wrong.