‘Morning, Jim. It’s my birthday.’ Bess rolled her eyes, hoping to convey how over the whole birthday thing she was and how it was more than a little embarrassing to be discussing it. She was conflicted, partly of the opinion that anyone over the age of twenty-one should simply and quietly acknowledge the day if they felt so inclined and move on without all the fuss, shenanigans and expense that a birthday incurred – save a decent card from their other half, which should at all costs exclude ducks. Nonetheless, she was keen to see all her lovely social media messages, which cost nothing, but showed the world that she was loved.

‘Twenty-one again, is it?’ Jim gave the throaty laugh that irritated her as much now as it had done for the last seventeen years. And yet, weirdly, she liked their interactions – it always broke up her day and made her feel part of the community.

Bess didn’t mix too often with her eclectic bunch of neighbours. It wasn’t their fault per se, but she just found it easier to keep herself to herself, uncertain of what she could possibly contribute to any gathering or whether she had anything of interest to say. Not that she was averse to peering at them through the haphazardly fitted slatted wooden blind at the bedroom window. These observations could brighten up the dullest of mornings, especially if she got a glimpse of the handsome Mr Andrew Maxwell, who was tanned, slim and had very good teeth.

The Maxwells’ Christmas drinks party was an insufferable annual affair where neighbours who pretty much ignored each other all year round, save a nod and a wave on bin day, were herded together and fed morsels of food, while Mrs Helen Maxwell told you exactly what was in them and how she had made them, like anyone cared. To get through it, Bess either ate and ate or bit the inside of her cheek to stop from yelling, ‘Sweet Lord above, woman! No one – and I mean no one – cares that you added a pinch of cayenne and let the pastry rest for forty-five minutes! Do what we do: go to Asda! Buy the bloody things!’