You're listening to a London Review of Books podcast.

11th of January.

The doorbell goes around noon.

I'm expecting Anthony Croller, the photographer,

so don't look through the window

and open the door to find what I take to be a builder "'with a loose piece of flex in his hand and what could be a metre. "'He says he's working at a house nearby, "'but needs to check our drain which may have a hairline crack. "'He makes to come in, "'but I say that if there is any work needs doing, we have a

builder of our own, and in any case my partner deals with all that.'

He then claims to have spoken to my boyfriend, who says it's okay. I shut the door on him and

telephone Rupert, the so-called builder, meanwhile, banging on the door.

Rupert, of course, has never spoken to anyone, so I go back to the door where, as soon as I open it,

the caller gets his foot in the door, literally.

Bridget, who's downstairs, now comes up, and at the sight of a third party he takes fright,

"'retreating to a white van waiting opposite with its engine running,

"'which drives off so quickly I fail to get the number.

"'Thinking about it afterwards, where he went wrong was in not being ingratiating enough

"'or trying to explain what the drain problem was,

"'and graduating straight to the frenzied banging on the door.

"'Your boyfriend didn't help either.

"'Like all crooks, he was affronted when his honesty was questioned,

"'if only because it implied a criticism of his performance.

"'29th of March, Richard Griffiths, dies.

We've been away for a couple of days,

...