After my lunch with Rose, what I’d dearly love is to flop onto the sofa with a cool flannel placed on my forehead, before adjourning to bed. I want to lie there, alone – ideally for two weeks, with drinks and snacks brought to me by a dashing waiter, as if I’m on one of those all-inclusive holidays that Andy never let us go on (‘They’re for people with no imagination,’ he reckoned. Copious food and unlimited cocktails to tip down my neck? I’ve always thought they sound heavenly). However, the kids must be fed and, aware that Ludo is out of sorts – understandably, as his position of Lord of the Manor is about to be usurped by a hollering baby – I must rise to the challenge of bashing a meal together for them.

‘What d’you like to eat, Ludo?’ I ask as I start to put the groceries away.

It seems ridiculous that I know so little about this child who is the same age as my daughter and has lived next door for the past three years. However, despite Chrissie’s suggestions that they should play together (why? Because they are small humans of roughly the same size?), it has always been apparent that that would never be a happy situation for anyone.

‘Dunno,’ Ludo says.

I try again. ‘If there’s something you really like, we might have it in and I can make it for you.’

Silence descends. Izzy glances at me, a small smile playing on her lips.

‘What d’you like, Ludo?’ she prompts him.

‘Cola bottles and fried eggs,’ he replies.

‘Oh. You mean a drink of cola with your fried eggs?’ I ask. Brilliant. That’s easy. We always have eggs – my whole family has always been mad about them, in all forms – and although we don’t have cola, I’m sure I can palm him off with the rather flat lemonade in the fridge.

I open it and reach for the big plastic bottle. ‘I mean cola bottles and fried eggs,’ Ludo barks.

‘Yes, I’m just getting the eggs out too.’ I place them, along with the lemonade, on the worktop. Izzy is sitting on a wooden chair, swinging her bare legs, observing the proceedings with fascination.

‘Not those kinds of eggs,’ Ludo retorts.

I look at him, uncomprehending. ‘What d’you mean, love?’ Duck eggs? Quails’ eggs? A Fabergé egg?

‘D’you mean those fried egg sweets?’ Izzy asks levelly.

‘Yeah.’

‘And cola bottle sweets?’ He nods, and Izzy turns to me: ‘That’s what he means, Mum. The sweets.’

‘Ah, I’m sorry,’ I say, feigning regret, ‘but we don’t have those in, Ludo. And I was actually thinking more, um, dinner-type food …’

‘I could make something?’ Izzy suggests.