Helen Harris always enjoyed her afternoon tea with Martha Evert, and as she knocked on the door carrying a treat of two chocolate muffins, she looked forward to an hour or two of catching up with her

GAVIN and I turned to look at each other on the sofa as the television credits rolled. “I know we’ve agreed for a long time that ‘Inspector Bletchley’ is our favourite programme,” I said. “But that wa

CAMILLE gulped down her cup of coffee, snatched up her keys and hurriedly hauled back the living room curtains. It wasn’t like her to oversleep, and of course it had to be this morning, when she had a

A h, right. So Phil can’t take you? Well, I can drive you and Jack to the Christmas tree place, Tara,’ my new neighbour Nick offered. ‘Oh, that’s a kind offer. I know it’s a bit early, but we like to

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her

I WAS dressed in my bright pink pyjamas decorated with cartoon sloths. In my defence, they are extremely comfortable. I was holding a hair curling tong like a microphone and belting out “Baby One More