The Punxsutawney Phil of dating is one. Someone who takes one peep at what’s on offer out there, then shrivels back into their nice, warm, cosy lair and stays there until winter’s safely over. Runway Guy is another. In other words, a fella who may as well have runway lights leading from his hall door to his empty double bed, wanting sex from you but very little else. And needless to say, the minute you sleep with him, you’ll never hear from him again. Guaranteed. Then there’s Pamplona Guy. One of those fellas that, when you’re with him, it’s the greatest adrenaline rush ever, but ultimately you know you’re going to end up getting gored alive.

‘Or Air Bag Guy,’ I suggest to Sharon, who’s guffawing so hard I’m worried she might bring up an organ.

‘What’s that?’

‘When two guys approach you in a bar and only one is interested. But he’s too nervous to get chatting to you on his own, so he brings a pal with him, on the understanding that if you give him the brush-off, then the friend is his air bag.’

‘Canary Guy is what I’d christen him,’ says Sharon. ‘You know, like when they used to send canaries down coalmines years ago, to see if there was anything doing?’

We both fall around laughing and I get up to order another round, delighted to actually be able to pay for it with money that I actually worked hard for and earned myself. Funny, the little things that can fill you with pride.

Anyway, the pub is filling up in earnest now and as I’m standing at the bar waiting to be served, more than a few people come up and say, ‘Howaya Jessie?’ like they’ve known me for years. I just nod and smile back, a bit annoyed with myself for being terrified about getting out and socialising locally, among neighbours. In fact, when I look back now, I’m completely mortified at how ridiculously agoraphobic I used to be. What exactly did I think would happen anyway? The worst thing anyone could possibly do is laugh in my face and I’m feeling so strong in myself now, that if that happened, I’d just tell them where to go. Or else set Sharon on them.

No, everyone’s being lovely, really concerned about me in fact. A few people have even asked me if I’m OK tonight, which is more than kind of them. Then, on my way back to Sharon with the drinks, I see Mrs Foley and Mrs Brady from our street sitting companionably at a table together side-by-side, nursing small whiskeys.

‘Jessie?’ Mrs Foley calls me over. ‘I just want to say it’s great seeing you out and about this evening. You’re dead right, love. Feck them all anyway!’

‘Absolutely,’ Mrs Brady nods in agreement. ‘Best thing you can do is to be seen in public with your head held high. Fair play to you, Jessie. Don’t let the bastards get you down, I always say!’

I smile and thank them, then head back to Sharon. ‘Ehh…why is everyone being so nice to me?’

‘Because we’re nice people, dopey. Why do you ask anyway?’

‘Because, well, there’s being nice and then there’s being a bit too nice.’

The mystery deepens two minutes later when Joan breezes in, dressed in scarily matching colours as usual (canary yellow tonight, and where she managed to find a handbag that exact colour is beyond me), and is greeted by a huge round of applause. Suddenly it seems like everyone in the pub is clapping her and she obliges by doing a little twirl and a bow, then spots us in the corner and totters over on the heels. In great form tonight, as it happens.

‘Well there you both are, girls!’ she smiles. ‘I was wondering where you pair were hiding. Maggie’s at home spewing fire at being left on her own, you know.’

Sharon and I look guiltily at each other. But then, that’s one particular bridge we’ll just have to cross later on, isn’t it? And preferably the more canned up we are for that, the better. I don’t know, maybe it’s because Sharon and I have grown closer, or maybe it’s seeing Sharon actively looking for love online, but honest to God, these days Maggie is acting like the poster girl for anger. And why she can’t express it by coming out and getting drunk like the rest of us, is beyond me.

‘What was all the clapping for?’ I ask Joan, deliberately changing the subject. For a second innocently wondering if it was because of her outfit.

‘Oh, you mean you didn’t know? Because this evening…’

‘What she means to say is that, this evening, she has rehearsals for the musicalyou’re putting on, don’t you Ma?’ Sharon interrupts, warningly.

‘Oh, ehh, yes, we’ve a musical soirée in the back room here later on. Doing The Mikado,you know,’ she adds uselessly, but it’s already too late. My suspicions are well and truly aroused. The game is up a second later when a chunky, florid-looking middle-aged man slips his arm around Joan’s waist and tells her that she’s a fine-looking woman and that she should appear on TV more often. Then, as he escorts her to the bar to buy her a Chardonnay, I turn on Sharon.

‘OK, nice cover-up, but would you please mind telling me what Joan was doing on TV tonight?’

But no sooner have I asked the question than the answer begins to dawn on me. Oh dear Jesus. I am such an idiot to have even forgotten in the first place. In the end, Sharon and I say it together. ‘The documentary.’

I slump against the wall of the bar and rub the cool glass over my forehead, like a cold compress. Of course. The A Day in the Lifeprogramme which was shot over the most monumentally awful twelve-hour period of my entire professional career. And of course, Maggie, Joan and Sharon would all have featured in supporting roles, given that they were interviewed for it way back when. I can’t believe I’d edited it out of my mind.

‘Let me get you another drink,’ says Sharon, concerned.

‘No. Just answer me one thing. How bad was it?’

‘Well, I didn’t see the whole thing, because you literally came in the door just before it was over, but what I did see…really wasn’t that bad at all,’ she lies.

‘That’s why you were anxious to get me out of the house tonight.’

‘Sorry about that. I didn’t want you to get upset. We all said some things in it that, well, that weren’t very fair. Me and Maggie particularly. And I’m sorry, Jess, I really am. It’s just I didn’t know you then like I know you now. But if that same crowd came to our front door tomorrow, I’d say very different things. I’d tell them how cool and fantastic you are. I’d tell them that…that…’

‘You don’t have to finish that sentence,’ I interrupt, afraid I might just start getting teary and emotional. ‘But, still, thanks for starting it.’

‘But I really want you to know something, Jessie. You’re my best friend.’

Now I’m touched. Really touched. ‘Thanks, Sharon. You’re my best friend too. I wouldn’t have got through the past few months without you.’

‘And I’m sorry for calling you a loser.’

‘You didn’t call me a loser.’

‘I did in my head.’

‘Come on,’ I say, all decisive. Determined not to get sentimental and to put the whole shagging documentary thing clean out of my head. That was my old life and this is the new. Simple as that. ‘Let’s get another round in. Let’s stagger home tonight as stewed as newts.’

‘Now that’s the kind of nagging I can live with,’ grins Sharon. ‘Sure, we have to toast the end of your first successful week working in Smiley Burger anyway, don’t we?’

Shit. Can’t believe I still haven’t told her.

‘Erm…Sharon? There’s something I need to say to you too. Are you drunk enough that you won’t be annoyed with me?’

‘Hang on a sec,’ she says, knocking back the rest of her Bulmers in a single gulp. ‘OK, shoot. And if it’s something I’ll be furious at, then you’re buying me a kebab on the way home.’

‘I’ve handed in my notice.’

It’s well after 2 a.m. when we finally stagger home with the intention of crashing out drunkenly on the sofa, so Sharon can have her kebab and I can doze off all the cider. But as it turns out, Joan’s beaten us to it and is still up, still in full make-up, wearing a matching nightie and dressing gown and watching herself on TV. Glued to it, in fact.