There’s no point lying here tossing and turning, so I pull on my dressing-gown and pad downstairs. I couldn’t talk to Jake after his bombshell. All I could do was crawl into bed and hope for a swift and pleasant death. There was no way I could make sense of it all after what had just happened.

In the kitchen, I root about in the back of the cupboard. Somewhere we’ve got the remnants of a tub of Horlicks, which I bought when Jake was going through a hard time at work and couldn’t sleep. Having found it, I check it’s still in date—I wouldn’t like to have survived my earlier suicidal thoughts only to poison myself with out-of-date Horlicks. That would be too cruel a fate. I then pour some milk into a pan and bring it to the boil. I’m not sure that I even like Horlicks, but I plan to drink it anyway. I have no idea what else to do.

In the darkness, I go through to the lounge and look out of the window and am surprised that even at this time in the morning there are lights on in other houses down the street and I wonder if it’s other people struggling with their lives, pacing the floor with nothing but milky drinks for solace. Research shows that we’re all suspicious of the people we live in close proximity to these days, mainly because we’re such a transient population, split from our family core by the practicalities of employment and economics. And it strikes me again that I really haven’t a clue who my neighbours are—there’s a retired doctor a few doors down and the obligatory gay couple—but that’s as far as it goes. I have no idea what their names are. If we ever get a letter misdelivered, we never know where its true intended home is, so just send it back ‘not known at this address’. Doesn’t that tell you something? The concept of community has somehow lost its way round here. We don’t have barbecues together, we don’t pop into each other’s houses borrowing cups of sugar, we don’t string our homes with marigolds during festivals. It seems we very rarely have anything to celebrate. The closest I’ve seen to a wild display of liberation and happiness round here is next door’s dog when he sticks his head out of the window of their car as they drive away down the street. Virtually the only time we catch more than a fleeting glimpse of each other is when there’s a sudden rush of spring weather and we all dash out on a Sunday morning to wash our cars and deadhead the winter flowers. It’s not much in the way of bonding. I wonder, would they bother to stop and help someone being mugged?