The co-operative car park, somewhere near Stoke

For forty years they had silently repeated this Sunday ritual. Vic arrived at 2:40 and went in, Sheila 10 minutes after. Long enough for Vic to get his Silk Cut and make his careful way back across the car park, coming within inches of Sheila heading in for her Mail on Sunday.

Sometimes she would coyly glance at the tarmac. Once, in late spring 1987 their arms brushed. The connection was there - so much communicated in that carefully orchestrated car park tango.

But today... what had he done to deserve this scorn? It was going to be a tough week for Vic. A tough week.