Linny was not terribly sympathetic, because she said at least I had an agent and a publisher, whereas she hadn’t heard a thing about her manuscripts, which were probably being used as loo paper all over the city as we spoke, due to the fine quality of the paper she printed them on in order to make them look more attractive. But she had always had money and so did not understand the desperation of someone who made her sole precarious living from writing in one way or another … which reminded me, I had a little backlog of Noveltina manuscripts to catch up with over the weekend, too.

I had to wait until Monday to phone my agent, Miracle Threaple (whose real name is Marianne), since she didn’t encourage weekend calls even in extremis, but once I got her on the line she extracted every last word and nuance from my meeting with Tim.

‘What am I going to do, Miracle?’ I demanded, and she said she’d have to think about it all, but she’d call me back after Christmas and we’d get together and discuss it, and then she rang off.

I didn’t feel very comforted by this, but I was putting my faith in her to think of something.

It was mid-morning before I got to Sergei’s flat, and due to an overactive imagination he was convinced I had been involved in some ghastly accident and was practically penning my eulogy.

After I finally succeeded in convincing him that it was really me and not my sorrowful shade come to bid him a fond farewell, we exchanged Christmas gifts, cards and possibly some strange and fatal virus that he was convinced he was harbouring.

He doesn’t actually celebrate Christmas until 7 January, for some inscrutably Russian reason, but he loves presents and so do I. But I also love surprises so, however tempted, I would not open mine until Christmas morning. (And I hoped it was something suitable for revealing to the Devino family circle, among whom I would be unwrapping it.)