Another day, the rain and deep purple clouds and wind, but still I walked to my friend’s house, and Charlie wore his jacket and hat, and two blankets pulled around his shoulders, and I buttoned the stormy-rain cover over the pram. It was a brisk chill walk with ice sprinkles of rain. And when I arrived my friend opened the door and at once I was overcome with the warm smell of baking. It brought tears to my eyes. ‘I don’t think they’re my finest hour,’ said my friend. ‘I forgot to separate the dry ingredients.’ Then she brought the baking to the table, along with coffee and chocolate, and this friend, she is bright and beautiful, and she has had many fine hours, but those warm raspberry muffins, those were her finest hour.