We were in ‘the shed’, the bus-shelter that squats by the side of the village green, and it was one of those long, hazy summer days that seem to stretch out into something closer to a week. To local kids the shed was a place to meet up, hang out, practise some inept graffiti, and generally waste some time.

Across the green from the shed is the Methodist church, and next to that the combined infants and junior school that we all went to before moving to secondary school in the next village over, Crowley.

There’s not a whole lot to do in Millgrove.

We couldn’t get high-speed broadband yet and we were in the middle of a mobile-phone dead spot that meant you couldn’t get a signal within the village itself. We were one of the last generations in the country that didn’t rely on mobile phones, although there were rumours that a new mast was going to help us catch up with the rest of the twenty-first century one day soon.

There’s a tiny playing field where the older kids try out smoking and train for future binge drinking, so we tended to avoid that. Then there are the three shops – a Happy Shopper, a family butcher’s shop and a newsagent.

NOTE – ‘Happy Shopper’

A retail outlet whose name demonstrates the period’s love of oxymorons – phrases that contain contradictory terms. Other examples are: ‘Civil War’, ‘Reality TV’, ‘Constant Change’, ‘Military Intelligence’ and ‘Friendly Fire’.

The shed is pretty much in the centre of the village, near enough to the shops in case we needed supplies, and it has a roof in case of English summer rain.

Simon and I have been friends for years. In all honesty I can’t even remember how our friendship came about. Sure, we have a lot of the same interests and attitudes about things, but all that came later… I mean, it was revealed over time, so there must just be some… I don’t know… instinct for friendship that’s separate, somehow, from all of that.