So now I very rarely walk out of the room and slam the door; on the other hand, I never laugh. And I would have to say that as a consequence I am slightly worse off. Part of the reason I married David in the first place was that he made me laugh, and now he doesn’t, doesn’t even want to, and part of me wants my money back. Am I entitled to it? What if a sense of humour is like hair—something a lot of men lose as they get older?

But here we are, in the real world, the world of now, and in the world of now David doesn’t make jokes and we are having a party, a party for all the people in our street, many of whom David has been extremely rude about, on very thin evidence (coats, cars, faces, visitors, shopping bags). And before I know it, the doorbell is ringing, and the first of our guests is standing on the doorstep with a puzzled but not altogether unfriendly smile on his face and a bottle of Chardonnay in his hand.

The puzzled face belongs to Simon, one half of a gay couple who have just moved in to number 25. His partner, Richard, an actor whom Tom claims to have seen in The Bill, is coming along later.

‘Am I the first?’ asks Simon.

‘Someone’s got to be,’ I say, and we both chuckle, and then stare at each other. David comes over to join us.

‘Someone’s got to be first,’ says David, and all three of us chuckle. (This does not qualify as a joke, by the way. Yes, David said something that was designed to lighten the atmosphere, and yes, I registered audible amusement, but these are special, desperate circumstances.)

‘How long have you been living in the street?’ I ask Simon.

‘Oh, how long is it now? Two months? Long enough for it to feel like home. Not long enough for us to have unpacked all our boxes.’ You remember that bit in Fawlty Towers when Basil’s car broke down, and he got out, and started beating it with the branch of a tree? You remember how when the first time you saw it you laughed until you were almost sick? That is more or less the effect that Simon’s box witticism has on David and me. You had to be there, I suppose.

Molly comes over with a bowl of cheese straws and offers one to all of us. ‘Tom says you were in The Bill,’ she says to Simon.

‘That wasn’t me. I’m not an actor. That was Richard.’

‘Who’s Richard?’

‘My boyfriend.’

You may have thought that this was the first straight line (if you’ll excuse both puns) that Simon has delivered since he arrived, but you’d be wrong, because if something makes somebody laugh, then by definition it must be funny, and by referring to Richard as his boyfriend, Simon makes Molly laugh. A lot. Not immediately: first she blushes, and stares at her parents in awe; then she collapses into uncontrollable giggles and whoops.

‘Your boyfriend!’ she repeats, when she has enough breath to do any repeating. ‘Your boyfriend!’

‘That’s not funny,’ says David, but because he is looking at Simon sympathetically when he says it, Molly gets the wrong end of the stick, and thinks that Simon is being told off.

‘He was only being silly, Daddy. Don’t be cross with him.’

‘Go away now, Molly,’ I tell her. ‘Other people would like some of those cheese straws.’

‘There aren’t any other people.’

‘Just go.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ David and I say simultaneously, although neither of us offers any explanation as to why our daughter thinks that a man with a boyfriend is the best joke she has ever heard.

‘Never mind,’ says Simon. And then, just to break the silence, ‘This was such a good idea.’

I am so convinced that he is being sarcastic that I snort.

The doorbell rings again, and this time it is Nicola, the unpleasant woman with the pursed-lip lines who wasn’t going to be able to come because of her self-defence class. She hasn’t brought a bottle.

‘I cancelled my self-defence class.’

‘Good for you.’ I introduce her to Simon, and leave the two of them talking about whether the council should introduce a parking scheme in our neighbourhood.

The room fills up. Richard from The Bill arrives, and I forbid Molly to talk to him. The Asian family from next-door-but-one arrives, and GoodNews attempts to engage them in a debate about Eastern mysticism. I am chatted up by the seedy-looking builder from number 17 whose wife is in bed with flu. My brother Mark turns up, looking baffled. David must have invited him, because I didn’t. I have no idea whether Mark is supposed to be a recipient or a donor of the expected largesse: he’s right on the dividing line.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks me.

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

‘Who are these people?’

‘I don’t know.’

He wanders off.

Remarkably, the party has started to resemble a party: people are laughing, talking, drinking, and the doorbell keeps ringing, and before long there is no more space in the living room, and people have spilled over into the kitchen. After a couple of glasses of wine, I even begin to feel a little sentimental. You know—here we all are, black, white, gay, straight, a microcosm of swinging, multicultural, multisexual London, eating cheese straws and talking about traffic schemes and mortgages, and getting on and isn’t this great? And then David stands on a chair and bangs a saucepan with a wooden spoon, and I am woken from my little reverie.

‘Good evening, everyone,’ says David.

‘Good evening,’ shouts Mike, the seedy looking builder, who, as luck would have it, is A Character.

‘When our invitation dropped through your letterbox, you probably thought to yourself, “What’s the catch? Why is this guy who I don’t know from Adam inviting us to a party?” ’

‘I’m only here for the beer,’ shouts Mike.

‘Well, it is Double Diamond,’ shouts somebody else.

‘No it isn’t,’ Mike shouts back. The two shouters are convulsed for what seems like several minutes.

‘I’d love to tell you that there isn’t a catch, but there is. A big catch. Because tonight I’m going to ask you to change people’s lives, and maybe change your own life, too.’

‘Backs to the wall!’ shouts Mike. You don’t have to be a psychoanalyst to worry about someone who thinks that changing one’s own life probably has something to do with homosexuality.

‘How many of you have got a spare bedroom?’ David asks.

‘Yes, thank you,’ Mike shouts. ‘It’s where I sleep when the missus won’t have me in with her.’

‘So that’s one,’ says David. ‘Any more?’

Most people choose to examine either their wine glasses or their feet.

‘Don’t be shy,’ David says. ‘I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. All I know is that this street is full of three-storey houses, and there must be quite a few empty rooms somewhere, because you haven’t all got two-point-four children.’

‘What about if you live in a flat?’ asks a young guy in a leather jacket.

‘Is it a one-bedroom flat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you haven’t got a spare bedroom.’

‘Can I go home, then?’

‘You can go home any time you want. This is a party, not a detention centre.’

‘Could have fooled me,’ shouts Mike. His partner in comedy, the man who made the Double Diamond witticism, has come to stand by him, and offers him his hand for a high-five.

‘I’m sorry to hear you’re not enjoying yourself.’ For a moment I think I catch a glimpse of the old David, visible like old paint through the new undercoat: there’s a sarcasm in there that only I would be able to hear. The old taste for verbal confrontation is peeking out, too, because he doesn’t say anything else: he’s waiting for Mike’s follow-up, his next crack, and Mike hasn’t got one, because in the end he’s merely a bit of a twit, someone who would shout out daft things at any sort of gathering with alcohol, be it a wedding or a christening or a save-the-world party such as this, and he wants to push things so far but no further, and now David is calling his bluff.