A few weeks pass. I still haven’t worked out what to do about the whole Emma situation. Right now I’m opting for the very mature, completely self-aware ignore the whole thing and hope it’ll go away approach. Emma hasn’t been around that much, which helps. I think she’s got a lot on with work. I’ve got a mountain of assignments to do, and another placement coming up, so the days pretty much pass without me even being aware what’s going on. I’m still finding time to take the odd walk with Jess, but she’s got loads going on at work as well. It’s like the nicer the weather gets, and the more we’d want to actually enjoy it, the less time there is for us to get outside, which is a shame because I’ve been thinking maybe I could ask Jess for some advice on what to do about Emma.

But not this weekend – because whatever the weather, we’re all outside for the whole of Sunday. Well, me, Jess and Becky, anyway. Matt, one of my old friends from when I worked with Becky, has been living with stage four leukaemia for the last year, and a couple of friends are running the London Marathon to raise money for Cancer Research.

‘All you have to do is stand by the side of the road in Shadwell at the official cheering point for a few hours and gee up the runners,’ Becky said, when she roped the rest of the house in. Jess is well up for it. Turns out she watches the marathon every year, so being there for the actual thing is really exciting for her. I volunteered last year in the St John’s Ambulance tent, so I’m slightly less excited and slightly more aware that getting from our side of London to Shadwell on Marathon day is a feat in itself.

‘It’s really good of you guys to come along,’ says Harry, the charity stand organiser. We’re spread out across three folding trestle tables, with boxes of bottled water, bowls of jelly babies and packs of energy gel all ready to go. Jess dances around, banging the inflatable noisemakers together, trying them out.

‘You might want to save that for later,’ says Harry, grinning. He’s an old hand at this. He tells us he’s been running the cheering station here for the last ten years, since he recovered from leukaemia himself.

‘Least I could do,’ he says, with a self-deprecating grin.

‘Lazy bugger,’ says a woman who introduces herself as Andrea, Harry’s wife. ‘You could at least run the bloody marathon like I did.’