I try to stop focusing on the fit of Michael Brady’s suit pants as he walks out of the cafe. His smile and parting wave are just friendly, nothing more, surely. I shouldn’t be having these sorts of thoughts at my age, and not about my son’s in-laws. I’m not here for that.

I finish my tea slowly and wander over to Bridges and Bitters, Esther’s bar, where the Foof ladies gather. I’ve been to a dozen meetings by now but still bite my lip as I ...