We liked each other so much that Josh insisted on disappointing his teachers and parents by joining me at Manchester University. They’d had their sights set on an establishment that was a little older and altogether less red-brick. I was determined to go to Manchester; for the trendy bands, the radical students union, the men in turned-up Levis and DMs, but mostly for the outstanding media studies course.

Josh is tall, six foot two, blond. If I look at it objectively, I have to admit he is the most attractive man I know that I haven’t slept with. Whenever I introduce him to my girl friends and colleagues, they unilaterally swoon, they go on and on about how fanciable he is. He is what’s described as ‘handsome’ or ‘dashing’. Invariably, because they lack imagination, they assume we are an item. I explain that I like him far too much to complicate things by having sex with him.

In fact, I love him. He is one of the three people I love in the world. I love my mother in a no-nonsense, non-demonstrative kind of way. And I love Issie.

Issie and I met at Uni. In her first term she read biology, then chemistry and finally chemical engineering. It wasn’t so much that she’d finally found her vocation, it’s just that her tutor wouldn’t hear of another change of direction. Issie is frighteningly intelligent and alarmingly optimistic. It’s an unusual combination, which largely leaves her dissatisfied. She’s a little taller than most women are (five foot nine) and a little thinner (UK size ten), achieved through the constant fidgeting rather than gym visits. Therefore she’s slim but untoned. She bewails her wobbly upper arms and potbelly but hasn’t, in the fifteen years I’ve known her, ever seriously considered stomach crunches or lifting weights (unless you count carrying heavy shopping bags). She’s a natural blonde: eyelashes and brows prove it. Therefore she doesn’t tan but has a sprinkling of freckles on her (wide) nose and (slim) shoulders.