On the wall of the flat that I’m selling, there’s a faint outline, in off-the-shelf, cursive font, of “live laugh love”.

On Thursday a couple came round to view the flat. 11:30am.

“What happened here?” one of them said.

I glanced at you sheepishly, perhaps trying to say, be normal, and let me sell this house, so I can go home, and feed my wife this leg of ham, so that she does not eat me.

“Well, the love left, and I stopped laughing,” you replied, “so I shattered most of it with the metal heel of a bespoke italian shoe.”