I’m angry with myself, really. Why did I answer the door? I’d only just got off the phone to Mutti – we’re very lucky that both of us have private phones, she because of the hotel, me because of my work at the uranium mine – and hadn’t had a chance to do my make-up. I don’t like to keep it on all the time. I need to if I don’t want to frighten people (ha! – I quite like frightening people, serves them right for being so squeamish), but the trouble is it itches, and I don’t think it’s good for my skin – or what remains of it – on that part of my face. It’s already so damaged. But I could have just not answered, that would have been the sensible thing to do. All right, I know I’m no oil painting (actually, I’ve never understood the attraction of lots of oil paintings of women, including the Mona Lisa, ugly cow-faced bitch), but at least with my make-up properly done I can make myself presentable. Well, I think so, at least. Others may not agree.

So, I did answer the door. And I confess I felt a little disappointed when Arnie clearly didn’t recognise me. I know it’s silly holding a torch for someone I met briefly when I was only thirteen years old, but if you’d had the life I’ve had, perhaps you’d understand. Not that he’s got film-star looks – he hasn’t. His wiry hair is a bit unkempt and balding, his stomach could be more toned, and he could – quite frankly – have brought a present. Some chocolates, flowers, a bottle of something. Are the English just naturally rude? Maybe they are. Although of course, as well as being English, he’s from Yorkshire. In books I’ve read about Great Britain, Yorkshire people – as well as those from Scotland – have a reputation for being ‘careful with money’. In other words, downright mean.

It all leaves me a little flustered. And because I didn’t get any warning – well not unless you count the phone call from Mutti, and that came far too late – I haven’t tidied the flat, and my trouble is I can’t bear to throw things away. It’s probably something to do with what happened in the war, in Dresden, how we lost literally everything. Now I’m a bit of a hoarder. So there are piles and piles of newspapers on each surface, and various other pieces of pretty worthless bric-a-brac that I can’t bear to be rid of.