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I live on my own, in a spacious pseudo-loft apartment in a trendy part of East London. I say pseudo because it’s not in the loft, it’s on the second floor. But I do have exposed brickwork and genuine iron girders that keep the roof from falling in. My space is the antithesis of both the abandoned family home in Esher and my mother’s two-up-two-down in Cockfosters. It’s modern and light and empty. I only allow things into my flat if they are both useful and beautiful. Except for the men who visit, which would be asking too much. My two favourite possessions are my charcoal-grey B&B Italia couch that seats umpteen and my B&O TV, which is the size of a screen at a small local cinema. I love my flat and Issie hates it, for the same reason: it’s clinical and impersonal. Issie keeps trying to introduce chintz by buying me floral bathmats and tea cosies for Christmas. I return the favour by buying her aluminium, slim-line pasta jars, which she can’t open.

Josh and Issie both have keys to my flat, as I do to their homes. We are Londoners so we don’t literally drop in on one another. But sometimes we make arrangements to go round to each other’s pads for supper, as it’s nice to occasionally come home to the smell of cooking and the clink of someone pouring you a G&T. Tonight I’m delighted we’ve made this plan. I need their company. I push open my door and am hit by delicious cooking smells.