‘Nice to meet you.’ I must’ve looked blank. ‘Your daughter invited me over for dinner. Remember?’

I couldn’t recall but, with the onslaught of the menopause, my head’s been like cotton wool. ‘Oh, yes,’ I blathered, steering him inside.

‘It’s cold,’ he said, blowing on his hands as he followed me down the hall into the kitchen where a beef casserole bubbled in the slow cooker. ‘Something smells good.’ He sat himself down on a stool at the breakfast bar.

‘I'll make us a cup of tea,’ I said and put the kettle on.

‘Can I be of any help?’ he asked as the kettle shrilled.

‘No. I’ll be fine.’

‘Maybe lay the table?’ He peered through the archway into the unlit dining room.

‘There’s no need,’ I told him, pouring boiling water into the teapot. ‘Sugar?’ He shook his head, glancing up at the kitchen clock with an anxious expression.

About to ask him if he’d met our daughter in the local college, I heard the front door open and my husband’s voice demanding, ‘Who’s parked that bloody banger outside our front gate?’

‘We’ve a guest, Jack,’ I replied as my husband appeared in the doorway looking irate.

‘Tim Watson.’ The young man got up.

Jack, straightening his features managed to smile and shook the proffered hand. ‘Nice to meet you Tim.’ Then Jack looked across at me, eyebrows raised in silent query. I shrugged. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Tim, I’m off for a shower,’ and my husband hurried out of the kitchen leaving me to make polite conversation with a stranger.

‘I hope I’m not putting you out,’ Tim said.

‘No, not at all,’ I replied in an airy manner and gave him the TV Times to read while I busied myself peeling extra potatoes.

Over dinner, Tim told us about his college course and his hopes to become a forensic scientist. Later, he offered to wash up and as I wiped, he said, ‘I can’t understand where Julie’s got to. Aren’t you worried?’

‘Julie?’

He let out a nervous laugh. ‘Your daughter.’

Then realisation struck. ‘Our daughter’s name is Samantha but she’s got a friend, Julie Stevens, who lives across the road’

‘My God!’ His cheeks coloured. ‘My God!’ he uttered again, slapping a palm against his forehead. ‘This is number 6 Melton Avenue, isn’t it?’

I shook my head. ‘Number 9.’ Another realisation struck. ‘Oh dear! The screw from our house number fell out, last week.’ Jack, ear- wigging from the sitting room, let out a sharp guffaw. ‘You’d better get over there,’ I suggested to our flapping guest.

‘What shall I tell her?’ he screeched like a frantic girl.

‘The truth,’ Jack answered from the depths of his armchair.

Seconds later, Tim sprinted across the road, knocked on number 6 but when the door opened, I heard a furious Julie yell, ‘Where the bloody Hell have you been?’

‘Well it was like this,’ he started to explain when the door slammed shut in his face.