Bev had never been much of a one for opinions.

She’d proffer them gingerly at the end of conversations, like a box of After Eights.

‘Don’t bother asking her,’ Martin would chuckle at those awful dinner parties. ‘She doesn’t know if she’s Arthur or Martha, most days, do you love?’

She didn’t miss those evenings. Or Martin.

Two months since that first Social Dis-Dancing Zumba class and the talk was about what would happen once the weather turned. Some of the girls said they’d just layer-up, but others were already a little more reticent the minute it looked like rain.

Bev’s knees complained in the damp, and her perm would suffer, but the pleasure of new friendships was not something she wanted to miss.

In the company of these shiny new acquaintances, friends even, Bev found herself slipping in views. No, she wasn’t that fussed by the silly girl who hosted the morning TV show. No, she did not want that new Morrisons built up by the already congested A-road. Yes, she liked Thai food, as long as it wasn’t too spicy.

Opinions, Bev found, popped up everywhere if you let them. And by the way, she’d always thought After Eights were over-rated. Elizabeth Shaw Mint Crisps, now there was a thing.