‘I’m impressed, Viv,’ Tim murmurs with a smile. ‘You’re obviously more persuasive than I’ve ever managed to be.’

So here we are, Chrissie and I, a few hours later, in the lively local pub where we managed to bag the last vacant table. We have already eaten elsewhere, at a nearby Italian. It was Chrissie who decided on stopping off here on the short walk home, which surprised me. Even more surprisingly, it would appear that the two men sitting nearby are attempting to chat us up. It feels bizarre and unintentionally hilarious – as retro as a Girl Friday tank top.

‘Off the leash tonight then?’ the sandy-haired one remarks.

‘Yes, we’re allowed out very occasionally,’ I reply.

‘Two young ladies like you?’ asks his friend (shaven head, tiny spectacles, full sleeve tattoo).

‘Looks like it.’ Chrissie laughs. ‘Will we be safe?’ She has already had a glass of red wine in the restaurant – a large one! – and giddily announced that it had whooshed to her head. And now, in her rather slinky black dress, heels and red lipstick, she is eagerly quaffing her second. I nearly fell over when she appeared on my doorstep, all dressed up and ready to go.

‘Well, if the two of you are forcing me out,’ she’d retorted, ‘I thought I might as well go for it.’

There’s more joviality from the men, who have introduced themselves as Tony (sandy-haired) and Gus (shaven). While they’re bantering between themselves I lean forward to Chrissie: ‘So which one d’you fancy?’

She snorts. ‘Oh, I’m not fussy. Either will do. Shall we have another wine?’

I look at her. ‘Are you sure?’ Whilst I’m not averse myself, I don’t want to be held responsible for corrupting her. ‘I expressed some milk for later tonight, just in case,’ she says conspiratorially.

‘Good work,’ I say, grinning. And so we have another drink, and are flirted with so ineptly – it’s all clumsy compliments – that I become aware of observing the process as if we are all in a nature documentary: So, here’s what happens when two males in the wild are looking to mate.

‘Are you two sisters?’ Tony wants to know.

I splutter at this. I’m dark-haired and curvy, Chrissie’s blonde and slim; plus, there’s the minor issue of me being fifteen years older. ‘No, we’re just friends,’ I reply.

‘We’re brothers,’ he announces, ‘from other mothers.’

‘So you’re friends, then,’ Chrissie remarks dryly.

‘Yeah, but if we were brothers,’ Gus adds, ‘we’d be twins ’cause we were born on the same day.’

‘Really! That’s amazing.’ She is showing herself to be quite at ease in licensed premises.

‘Guess how old we are,’ Tony urges us.

I blink at him. The amusement factor is waning now, and I’m starting to think: perhaps we should head home and check if Tim is ‘coping’?