‘Hello and welcome to the avenue,’ said the oldest member of the group, a slight man with thinning white hair, whom I’d seen a couple of times at a distance but never spoken to. I remembered him because his resting face was particularly grumpy, like that of a disgruntled garden gnome. But as he smiled at me now, it was, as my mother used to say, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

‘Great to meet you…’ I paused, waiting for him to tell me his name.

‘That’s Stan,’ said June quickly, with the slightly dismissive edge to her tone which people reserve for family members. ‘And this is William, from number 40. He’s in a band,’ she added proudly, extending her hand towards a tall, slim, bearded man. His wavy, surprisingly thick, grey hair fell just below his collar, and he was dressed entirely in black.

‘Call me Bill,’ he smiled, peering down at me through tinted aviator specs. On closer inspection, I decided that he was well into his seventies.

‘You’re in a band, Bill? How exciting,’ I said. ‘What do you play?’

‘Bodhrán and penny whistle.’

‘Folk music?’

‘Reggae mainly, but also a bit of Meatloaf, Belinda Carlisle – that kind of thing.’

‘Wow, well, that’s… that’s just so… eclectic. I’ll have to come and hear you play sometime.’

‘We’re playing Clifton in October,’ he said, offering me a kindly look. ‘I’ll push a ticket through your door over the weekend, and some extras for your friends. How does that sound?’

‘That’s so kind of you,’ I said. ‘But let me know the date and I’ll double-check if I can make it first. I’d feel terrible if the tickets went to waste.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s not a bother. Just pop the money to me in the next couple of days – no rush – and sell the tickets on if you can’t make the date.’

‘Oh… right,’ I said, wondering exactly how much not listening to Celtic reggae was going to cost me. ‘Thanks.’

‘And this is Patrick.’ June concluded the introductions by indicating the greying, ruddy-faced man standing to her left, currently flying in the face of wine-and-cheese convention by nursing a beer. Judging by his florid complexion and slight sway, it wasn’t his first of the evening.

He wordlessly raised his glass to me in lieu of a ‘hello’, and there then followed a conversational pause, during which I smiled inanely and willed Giles to hurry up and bring me a drink.

‘Have you got a vehicle?’ asked Patrick, so suddenly and loudly that I started at the question. He raised his beer slowly to his lips, whilst narrowing his eyes and sizing me up over the top of his glass.