Over the next few months I would occasionally see Dog Woman leaving her flat and taking her dog for a walk on the grass square in front of the building. She was always wearing the same green and red checked woollen coat. Her greying hair was tied up in a makeshift bun and she walked with a slight limp that indicated some confusion within her right hip. She looked to be in her mid-sixties. I got the impression that she wasn’t in employment. Her dog had longish hair with black and white patches here and there. From her instructions to it I gleaned that its name was Lassoo. It had a great deal of the sheepdog about it but had long lost its sparkle and intensity. Whenever I saw her walking her dog it was noticeable that nobody would stop and say hello or engage her in a chat. It crossed my mind that she might have a tainted reputation or that there was an unwritten rule that she must not be approached. On the odd occasions that our paths crossed I would say hello to her but she never made eye contact or responded to my greeting. On one occasion I shared the lift with her and we stood in silence. She smelt strongly of very old fruitcake. I eventually stopped trying to address her and in time felt quite pleased that I had a neighbour who wished to keep herself to herself. No obligations, no responsibilities.

When my first summer at the flat arrived, however, Dog Woman took to sitting on a chair outside her front door whenever the sun was shining. This wasn’t to soak in the rays, I assumed, but rather to escape the intense heat that would build up in the flats due to the three-quarter-height, south-facing windows in the lounge and kitchen. Lassoo would be sat by her with his drinking bowl by her feet. One day, as I avoided her gaze and walked past, she spoke to me for the first time:

‘Where are you going?’

Surprised but alert as always, I responded with honesty.

‘To get a pie.’

‘Oh, you like a pie, do you?’

‘Yeah, I find them a great comfort. How about you?’

‘What sort of pie are we talking about here?’

‘I usually make my mind up when I’m at the shop, but savoury for sure – probably mince and potato but maybe steak and onion. Depends on the use-by dates.’

‘Must be nice to be able to pop off to the shop whenever a pie takes your fancy.’

‘Yeah, I suppose I should be grateful for that.’

She then exhaled strongly as if in pain and started to rub her hip.

‘You okay?’ I asked.