She leant on the doorframe and ogled the envelopes in his hand. ‘You know, I’m not too happy about it. I mean, I get feeling excited when you’re six, if it means cake at school and a party, and when you’re nine, of course, and about to go into double figures, but when you’ve got more years behind you than ahead’ – she pulled a face – ‘what is there to celebrate? Another couple of decades before I start properly losing my marbles, my remaining looks and my continence?’

I’m running out of time . . . I will never have the job of my dreams and take to the air like lucky Daniel . . . Gone is the prospect of great sex with someone who is yet to discover me and who in turn will help me discover myself . . . I’m running out of time to make amends . . . And with each year my kids slip further from my reach . . . falling into the arms of their life partners, who they put before me, and I know that’s how it should be, but I find it hard to be happy about it . . . because it leaves Mario and me on our own.

‘Wow, you’re even starting to make me wonder what’s to celebrate!’ Jim kicked his steel-toe-capped regulation boot under the lip of the step in her porch.

‘The thing is, Jim, everyone tells me that each year is a blessing, and sometimes I agree, but on other days I want to ask why. Why is getting older in an already over-populated world a blessing? Have you been to those old people’s homes? Good God, they are bloody awful! Rows and rows of plastic-covered chairs, crammed with people waiting for death. Wrinkly and stooped, supping on mashed food seasoned with regret. Gratefully drinking tepid milky tea with third-rate TV programmes on too loudly in the background and the smell of urine and lavender in the air – why would I look forward to that?’ She was aware this was probably more analysis than her friendly postman had bargained for, but once she had started it was hard to stop.

‘I don’t . . . I don’t know.’ He let out a deep sigh, seemingly at a loss for a more satisfactory response.