Alfie remembered what his dad had said: just stick to your routines. It was clearly no good trying to get Mrs Stokes involved, so Alfie decided to get on with it on his own. He took all the paper routines and laid them out in front of him at the kitchen table. He didn’t, after all, need a grown-up to help him through them, did he?

Well, unfortunately, yes. The first one, for example. The one that he was already fourteen – no, sixteen now – minutes behind for. Theoretically, he could do having-tea himself. But that meant going very off limits in the way the routines were meant to work. He was supposed to be in place, having laid the table, by 6.30pm. His stepmum, or Stasia, would then bring him tea. For him to bring himself tea confused everything. Not least because his tea was in the oven, on quite a hot plate, and he knew he wasn’t supposed to get hot stuff out of the oven. That was definitely a grown-up’s job.

There was one upside to all this: even though he’d accepted that it was always what he had for tea on a Saturday night, secretly Alfie didn’t really like Broccoli Bake. He thought about getting something else, but when he looked in the cupboard most of the tins and packages in there contained stuff that needed cooking. Which he also couldn’t do on his own.

And time was ticking by. He really needed to get on to his next routine, clearing-up-after-tea. But this presented both a practical problem and a philosophical one. Could he clear up after tea when he hadn’t actually had any (that was the philosophical one)? He could clear the table, and bring his plate, glass and cutlery to the sink, but he hadn’t used them, so did they need to be cleaned? And anyway he didn’t know how to switch the dishwasher on; a grown-up had to do that (this was the practical problem).

Then, after that, there was homework. It was science – a whole essay he was meant to write, about the difference between mammals and marine animals … tonight. He needed a grown-up to help him with that too. Next on the list was a limited-amount-of-TV and he couldn’t do that either because Mrs Stokes was sitting in front of the telly.

Alfie didn’t want to go any further down the schedule because, if he couldn’t get the next four tasks done, there was just no point. He simply wouldn’t be sticking to his routines. Which was what his dad had told him he had to do.

Alfie felt a rising panic in his throat. He knew, at some level, that his world was falling apart. He’d started to sweat and quite a large part of him wanted to cry, which he hadn’t done for ages, not since his mum died. The feeling in his throat got worse and a shout came out that was half a scream. It might have been wordless, but it wasn’t. It was two words.

“MRS STOKES!!!!!”

It was a last attempt to get the old lady to come and do her bit to make the routines happen.

“YES, DEAR!!” Her voice came through, crackly as ever, from the living room.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” shouted Alfie.

This, undoubtedly, was playing into Mrs Stokes’s hands. “OH WELL!” she shouted, “JUST DO WHAT YOU LIKE!!”

Just do what you like? thought Alfie. Are you going to say that over and over again? Just do what you like just do what you like just do what you like just do what you like!!!!

“ALL RIGHT THEN!” Alfie shouted, thinking of time ticking away and his routines slipping past. He held his hands up in exasperation.

And suddenly he noticed – because his hands were up in the air – that both his watches had stopped.