As I’m walking down the path a woman I don’t know—mid-forties, slightly stroppy-looking, too much lipstick, lines around her mouth that suggests she’s spent the last couple of decades pursing her lips disapprovingly—stops me.

‘Did you invite me to a party?’

‘Not me. My husband.’

‘I got an invitation.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ This is the question that most of our neighbours would want answered, but which only the unpleasant or mad ones would actually ask.

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘Why did your husband invite me to a party? He doesn’t know me.’

‘No. But he’d like to.’

‘Why?’

I look at her, and I can just about make out an aura of unpleasantness hovering above her head; I’m presuming that this particular ‘why’ is rhetorical, and that no one has ever wanted or could ever want to know her.

‘Because he has this mad vision that everyone in this street could love each other and get on with each other and Webster Road would be this lovely, happy place to live and we’d be in and out of each other’s houses and maybe each other’s beds and in any case we’d really look after each other. And he really wants you to… What’s your name?’

‘Nicola.’

‘He really wants you, Nicola, to be a part of all this.’

‘What night is it? Wednesday?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘I’m busy Wednesdays. I do women’s self-defence.’

I raise my palms and make a sad face, and she walks on. But I have a lot to thank her for: I can see the fun in this. Who would have thought that a desire to make the world a better place could be so aggressive? Maybe David hasn’t changed at all. Maybe all he ever wanted to do was upset people who need upsetting.

‘Would you like to come to a party?’

Mr Chris James stares at me. We have just been arguing for ten minutes about my refusal to provide a note explaining his absence from work for the previous fortnight; it is my belief that he was not ill. (It is my belief, in fact, that he has been in Florida or somewhere on holiday, because when he was rummaging in his pockets for a biro he managed to spill a whole handful of American small change all over the floor, and got very defensive when I asked him where he got it from.)

‘What sort of party?’

‘The usual sort. Drink, food, conversation, dancing.’ There will be no dancing, of course—it’s more your standing-around-listening-to-a-man-standing-on-a-chair-and-lecturing-you party than a dancing party—but Mr James isn’t to know that. (He isn’t to know that there is unlikely to be very much conversation, either, given the nature of the evening, but if I tell the truth then it doesn’t really sound like much of an invitation.)

‘What are you asking me for?’

‘I’m asking all my regulars.’ This is not true either, obviously, although I certainly intend to ask the patients I don’t like very much, which may well turn out to be the regulars, many of whom I have learned to dislike.

‘I don’t want to come to a party. I want a doctor’s note.’

‘You’ll have to settle for a doctor’s invitation.’

‘Shove it.’

I raise my palms and make a sad face, and Mr James walks out of my surgery. This is great! I’m not exactly killing with kindness, but I’m certainly leaving the odd flesh wound. I am a convert.

Barmy Brian Beech, Heartsink Number One, has come in to ask whether he can help me with the operations.

‘I wouldn’t want to do the actual cutting bits. Not straight away. I’d have to have a look at what to take out and all that.’

‘I’m a doctor,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t do operations.’

‘Who does, then?’

‘Surgeons. In hospitals.’

‘You’re just saying that,’ he says. ‘You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to help.’

It is true that if I were a surgeon, Barmy Brian would not be my first choice as assistant, but as I am not, I don’t have to have that particular conversation. I just have to have this one, which is in itself tortuous enough.

‘Just give me a chance,’ he says. ‘Just one chance. And if I mess it up, I won’t ask again.’

‘Do you want to come to a party?’ I ask him. He looks at me, all surgical ambitions suddenly abandoned, and I have achieved my immediate ambition, namely, to lead Brian away from a putative career in medicine. I have, however, invited him to a party at my house—not something I had thought of doing before. This party isn’t mine, though. It’s David’s.

‘How many people are at a party? More than seventeen?’

‘There’ll be more than seventeen at this one, probably. Why?’

‘I can’t go anywhere where there’s more than seventeen people. That’s why I couldn’t work at the supermarket, you see. There are loads of people there, aren’t there?’

I concede that the combined staff and customer numbers at the supermarket regularly exceed seventeen.

‘Well, there you are,’ he says. ‘Could I come maybe the day after, when they’ve all gone?’

‘Then it wouldn’t be a party, though.’

‘No.’

‘We’ll try and have one with sixteen. Another time.’

‘Would you?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

For the first time ever, Brian leaves the surgery happy. And that makes me happy, until I realize that all this happiness comes as a direct result of David’s lunacy, and that, far from sabotaging David’s plans, I’m actually endorsing them. I have just been nice to exactly the kind of person David thinks I should be nice to, and as a consequence that person’s life has been momentarily ameliorated. I don’t like the implications of that.

It goes without saying that the old David hated parties. To be precise, he hated throwing parties. To be even more precise, to be as precise as that BMW engineer in the TV ads, he hated the idea of throwing parties, because we never went as far as actually throwing one, not once in twenty years together. Why did he want a load of people he didn’t like putting cigarettes out on his carpet? Why did he want to stay up until three in the morning just because Becca or some other arsehole friend of mine was drunk and wouldn’t go home? These were, as you may have guessed, rhetorical questions. I never actually attempted to argue all the reasons why he might have wanted cigarette burns on the carpet. The way the rhetorical questions were phrased, I felt, indicated that I was highly unlikely to persuade him that parties could be FUN!, or that seeing all one’s friends together in one place was GREAT! That wasn’t how things used to work.

I start thinking about all sorts of things that didn’t use to work in the way that they are working now, and I don’t know how I feel about it. Here’s something: David used to spend a lot of money on CDs and books, and sometimes, when he wasn’t working properly, we used to argue about it, even though—or probably because—I am unhappy that I have become a culture-free organism. I know that he tried to hide new things from me, by burying the CDs on the shelves, playing new ones when I was out, scuffing paperbacks around a bit so that I wouldn’t notice their newness. But now he has lost interest completely. He doesn’t go out much, and the review sections of newspapers are thrown away untouched. And, if I am honest, I miss what he brought to the household. I may have become an unwitting convert to an extremist religion that regards all forms of entertainment as frivolity and self-indulgence, but I secretly enjoyed living with someone who knew what Liam Gallagher does for a living, and now that has gone.

And here’s another thing: he doesn’t make jokes, not proper ones, anyway. He tries to make the kids laugh, in a 1960s children’s television kind of way—he puts things that aren’t hats on his head, which is always a hoot, he uses pieces of fruit as ventriloquist’s dummies (‘Hello, Mr Banana’ ‘Hello, Mrs Strawberry’, that sort of thing), he pretends to be a Spice Girl, etc., and so on. Molly laughs falsely, Tom looks at him as if he were attempting to defecate rather than amuse. But adults (in other words, me, because GoodNews doesn’t look like he spends a lot of time at his local comedy club)… forget it. His relentless quest for the gag in everything used to drive me potty, because he’d get this look on his face when you were talking to him, and it would fool you into thinking that he was listening to what you were saying, and then some elaborate and usually nasty witticism would come darting out of his mouth like Hannibal Lecter’s tongue, and I would either laugh, or, more often, walk out of the room, slamming the door on the way. But every now and again—say, five per cent of the time—something would hit me right on the end of my funny bone, and however serious I felt, or angry, or distracted, he’d get the reaction he was looking for.