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‘Oh dear,’ she whispered. ‘I keep forgetting if I've had lunch or not.’

‘I know the feeling,’ I muttered, hurrying past her to put it on her table, then very quickly, out.

‘That poor old soul,’ I said to Felicity as I got back in the car. ‘Should she be on her own?’ I glanced back over my shoulder as I put my seat belt on.

‘What d'you suggest, a home?’

‘Well…’

‘She'd hate it. No, the trick is, not to get involved. Just deliver them their nice hot meal and know you've made some sort of difference to their day. Now. Two to go. Mr Bernstein – no pork, pink spot – and Mrs Partridge, purple spot, everything puréed.’

‘Right.’ I tumbled out again as we stopped. Ran round to the boot. Two boxes left. One black spot, one green. Not pink and purple. I frowned. Shouted through the car to the front. ‘Sure it's pink and purple?’

‘Positive.’

I opened the green box. Sniffed. Pork. Oh Lord. Opened the black one. It was very far from puréed. In fact, a fully dentured person would have trouble with the lumps in that.

‘Er… Felicity, I think I may have boobed.’

‘Oh God,’ she groaned. ‘What did you give Mrs Mason?’

‘Well… purple. Isn't that no beans, no onions?’

‘No! Black is no beans – and Mr Clarke at number sixteen?’

‘Oh God – yellow. Oh, Felicity, I think I've got them muddled!’

‘Quick, get in.’

I ran round, jumped back in, and before I'd even shut the door, Felicity was executing an immaculate three-point turn in the road. We roared off back to number sixteen. Dangerously close to the ageing lesbians, as far as I was concerned. I glanced nervously down the road to their bungalow. The front door was shut but I was convinced Noel Coward was at a bedroom window on one knee, taking up a sniper position. Felicity got out with me and we ran up the path as one; leaned on the doorbell.

As Mr Clarke came to the door, napkin tucked in under his chin, knife and fork in hand, Felicity slipped past him.

‘Hello, Mr Clarke, have you eaten it yet?’

I moved to join her as she spun around the sitting room.

‘What?’ He cupped his ear.

‘HAVE YOU EATEN LUNCH?’

‘Not yet, just about to. Looks delicious.’

He shuffled past us through an archway to a tiny dining room and sat down in front of a full plate. Felicity lunged and whipped it away.

‘It's not. But this is.’ She gave me a nod and I quickly replaced the fish with the pork. Together we raced out. As I shut the front door I just caught a glimpse of his startled face, his mouth slowly opening and shutting. Then he shrugged and tucked in.

Felicity was already a few doors down, ringing the doorbell. I took a short cut across the tiny front gardens, leaping over a few rose beds and chain-link fences to join her.

‘This could be disastrous,’ she muttered, leaning hard on the doorbell again. ‘Mrs Mason has the sort of flatulence that could propel a small moped. You've just given her puréed beans, onions and prunes.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘You bet. No plumbing in the civilized world could accommodate what she might evacuate.’

Finally, after three more mighty rings, she came to the door beaming vacantly in her diaphanous nightie, a few telltale stains down the front.

‘Hello, Mrs Mason, have you had your lunch?’ breathed Felicity urgently.

‘Yes, delicious,’ she beamed. ‘And prunes for pudding. Lovely!’

‘Good, good,’ purred Felicity nervously. ‘Well, jolly good, Mrs Mason. Just checking you enjoyed it.’

‘It made a nice change, thank you, dears.’ She went very red in the face suddenly. Her flimsy nightie floated up at the back. Vrrrrrp! She looked astonished. And not a little delighted.

‘Mrs Mason,’ Felicity was rooting around in her handbag, ‘take a couple of these pills with a glass of water, hm?’ She punched out a couple of tablets from some silver foil.

‘What are they dear. Sweeties?’ She gazed at them in wonder. A spectacular smell was unfolding.

‘Yes. Sort of. But take them right now, hm?’

‘Oh, I will. Thank you, dear!’ And her face began to turn pink again, her nightie wafting up, as she shut the front door.

‘Don't be surprised if that