‘I have to see The Dumb Waiter this evening,’ Hot Danish told his neighbour on the tube, expecting sympathy from the cultured Scotsman. He fared better with Plan B and the other guys over lunch at Claude’s Kitchen. The conversation veered from too-small theatre seats to Plan B’s box-framed toenail, a memento from his marathon training (admittedly, I probably steered the conversation in that direction by playing with my food).

HD and I had endured sleeplessness the previous night due to reveling neighbours, so there were repetitions of ‘I’m tired’ and a rant about London when HD failed to bring his oyster card (which I’d reminded him about) and then accidentally used two different oyster cards for one journey.

‘I have something for you,’ he said, holding out cupped hands while I was at the bathroom sink when we’d returned to our temporary west London home. ‘I hope that isn’t a toenail?’ (I am often nagging him about cutting them; I was right.)

In the end I decided to invite a more appreciative plus one to The Print Room. Yes, the chairs were small but we’d arrived in plenty of time to nab front-row seats and the sold-out performance was 55 minutes long. I heard much hearty laughter among the men in the audience and the growing apprehension was palpable.

HD had missed out, but I dragged him to the V&A the next morning – I think he rather enjoyed a quick look round the jewellery gallery. ‘The best things in life are unexpected – because there were no expectations,’ as the writer Eli Khamarov once said.