‘Didn’t he want to come for tea too?’

‘He was otherwise engaged.’ I haven’t the heart to elaborate – she looks crushed as it is. Rallying herself, my mother turns to Issie.

‘Issie, are you courting at the moment?’ asks Mum as she passes Issie a slice of cake. Issie and I avoid catching each other’s eye because although we are thirty-three years old we still think the word ‘courting’ is hysterical. Hearing it said out loud is enough to send us into peals of helpless giggles.

‘No.’ Issie manages the single syllable by cramming a load of fudge cake into her mouth.

‘Oh. What a shame. Are you working too hard? You’re not neglecting your social life are you? Don’t forget there’s more to life than work.’ My mum and I agree on one thing. If Issie wants a man it should be possible.

‘It’s not work. It’s just that all the men I meet are bastards.’ Mum blushes at Issie’s expletive. I’m amused and watch the exchange with interest. My mum and I run through this routine every week. It amazes me that whilst her marriage made her so unhappy, she still thinks it’s the answer to everyone else’s dreams.

‘I met someone last night.’ I catch Issie’s eye – we both know she is giving my mother false hope. ‘But I took his number down incorrectly, one digit too many.’ She’s just bending the truth to protect the feelings of an older lady. Anyone would do it. My mother and Issie then spend an hour looking at the telephone number working out which is likely to be the wrong digit. This is one of the most pointless exercises I’ve ever witnessed. I spray the roses, which have a spot of greenfly.

2

He is appallingly ugly. And whilst most people are embarrassed by their physical drawbacks, Nigel Bale, my boss, is blissfully unaware that he looks like Hissing Sid.