My resolve set like concrete, aided and abetted by my mother’s jibes about my inability to successfully hold on to suitable partners. I would prove to the world that Amber and I were meant to be together and, more pertinently, I would prove to my mother that I had resilience and determination. Up until this time, she hadn’t approved of anyone I brought home. Amber was different though because she had been my mother’s choice. I hoped this would make my task easier.

Ted’s house was a 1960s bland brick-built semi-detached house. It was in a leafy suburb near Totteridge Common but Ted, like his semi-detached house, was the poor relation with a postcode of grandeur but an east-end style property. There was a brass knocker on the door but no bell. I spotted my mum’s car in the driveway and in one awful instant I realised they were probably living together. Even if my mother hadn’t moved in all her worldly possessions, it was obvious she was staying over. She was sleeping with the enemy.

‘Hello, darling. Come in.’

My mother, new lady of the manor, flung open the door and threw her arms around me. ‘Ted, it’s Arthur. Arthur’s here.’

She tried to unwrap my scarf and ruffled my hair which stuck to my head like half-dried paint thanks to the woollen cap which was part of my daily disguise. ‘You need a haircut,’ she said as she led me through to the dining room. The table was set for four.

‘Who else is coming?’ My hackles rose. I noted the meticulously laid table, complete with place name settings stuck into miniature silver reindeers. There was four of everything; four gaudy napkins in green and gold, and four large silver crackers. A centrepiece, amateurishly arranged, flaunted holly strands, pine cones and bunches of red plastic berries.

My mother joined Ted in the kitchen while I stared in horror at the dining table. I suddenly feared that Amber had reconsidered and decided to turn up and tell everyone that we were now only friends, albeit good friends. Perhaps she wanted to prove that this might be a convivial working way forward.

‘No one, darling!’ shouted my mother over the clatter of pots and pans. ‘Ted hoped Amber might join us but she’s come down with flu or something. A pity, but all the more for you,’ Mum teased. She clutched a large metal soup tureen which she carried through to the table.

My mother was dressed in a short black skirt, black stockings and unusually high heels. A tight red top clung to her pendulous breasts. The gaudy ensemble was accessorised by large hooped earrings and a heavy gold chain. I thought of a lady mayoress as the chain clunked against the tureen.

‘Mum, what are you wearing?’ I watched Ted follow along behind, holding a plate of neatly cut crusty bread.