Joyce is a childhood friend I see often. When I called on her a few months back she looked visibly flustered. I was at a loose end and and had gone to see her for our usual natter. “Am I glad to see you,” she said, ushering me into a chair in the kitchen where she was making up different mouth-watering dishes. I certainly had called at a good time. I patted myself on the back, as I tucked in with relish. “Henrietta is back,” she informed as we ate. I looked blank. “You haven’t forgotten all about her have you? Mercy’s second daughter!” The penny finally dropped.