I take in Ludo’s eager, attentive expression. Something has happened since the arrival of his baby sister. He’s less shouty, less aggressive; less likely, perhaps, to try and stone the local cat population or smash down a shed. I’d like to think that being around a small, pink baby girl has softened him, but suspect he’s just shattered from all the crying during the night.

Hours later, at around midnight, I’m aware of Bobby’s soft breathing close by, in-and-out, in-and-out, as I drift towards sleep. So much for him kipping in his basket. He made it clear he wasn’t having that, and who was I to argue when he sat there whining at my bedroom door? Now his head is on the pillow beside me, with one ear sticking up. Like a small, furry husband who doesn’t steal all the duvet, he emits the odd muted snore.

As a bed companion he’s perfect. And, as a bonus, it occurs to me how disgusted Andy would be to see him here.

Monday, September 9

Nor does he wake up complaining about a swamp-like bed. He just gazes at me, eyes bright and adoring, tongue lolling as he pants in readiness for the day ahead. I can’t remember a morning when anyone has looked so happy to see me.

Maybe this is my future, I reflect as I get dressed. Not with another man, taking up wardrobe space and commandeering too many hangers, but with a small affectionate animal with slightly stinky breath.

Meanwhile, I have the prospect of Nick coming around later this morning, whom Penny seemed to have marked as a possible love interest for me. Never mind that he’s her own flesh and blood, who happens to live in New Zealand, and that the idea is as ridiculous as me trying to set up Spencer with someone. Even if he were single, he’d laugh in my face. He won’t even let me choose a T-shirt for him. My hooking up with our friendly lollipop man (whom I have since found out is seventy-eight years old – although admittedly well preserved!) is more likely. I thank him warmly as Izzy, Bobby and I cross the road on our way to school.

Back home, I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror, unwashed and unkempt in my baggy grey sweater and jeans, hair stuffed into a scraggy ponytail; my default day-off-work look. Thirty minutes later I am showered and blow-dried (only for speed, not because I’m making a special effort), and wearing a blue cotton dress (first thing I put my hand on), and eye shadow, mascara, lipstick and a touch of blusher (only because the dress demands make-up) as I flit about the house.

The doorbell goes. I stride towards it, with Bobby charging ahead of me, trying to settle my expression into bright/perky/not mad-looking in preparation for greeting my gentleman caller.