As we approached Hartlepool, I was expecting the worst. Sue was a single parent who lived in a council house in the north of England. I imagined burning cars on the pavement, damp on the walls and a kitchen infested with cockroaches. As Sue drove us down a small terraced street, with a beautiful wrought-iron lamppost, exquisitely arranged flowerboxes and neatly polished doors, I didn’t think we’d be stopping. Suddenly, Sue jammed on the brakes.

Sue: Oh, no.

Me: What’s wrong?

Sue: My parents are here.

I panicked. You met a girl’s parents after the fourth, fifth or six hundredth date. You definitely didn’t meet the parents if you hadn’t slept with their daughter yet. A woman was waving at us from the kerb. This must be Sue’s mum. I couldn’t put my finger on it but there was something oddly familiar about her. Sue was already out of the car before I could unbuckle my seatbelt.

Sue’s mam: Hiya, chuck. The lodgers have decided to stay at ours for a few more weeks so we’ll have to move back in again. You don’t mind, do you? I told your father that you wouldn’t mind. Who’s this?

Sue tapped on the passenger window so I reluctantly stepped out of the car. I couldn’t believe it. Sue’s mother was the spitting double of Jon Pertwee. All she needed was a crushed velvet cape.

We were now joined outside the house by the snooker player Dennis Taylor. This was Sue’s dad.

Sue’s mother poked my ribcage with her finger. I half-expected her to cry ‘HAI!’

And with that, Jon Pertwee and Dennis Taylor walked arm in arm towards the Mecca.

Sue likes to say that I only agreed to go back to her place that first time because she had cable television. I admit that when I realised the channel UK Gold was broadcasting late-night repeats of Doctor Who – episodes I’d never seen before – Hartlepool suddenly seemed as exciting as New Zealand. And I also admit that I placed a blank VHS tape in the pocket of my donkey jacket, just in case, during my stay, the opportunity arose to record an episode or two. But Sue fascinated me. She was unlike any woman I’d ever met. She drank pints for a start – not because she was a feminist, she just drank pints. And yes, I fancied her. I fancied her like mad. It didn’t bother me that she was older than me, or that she was a single parent. I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship; besides, knowing my luck, I’d almost certainly mess things up long before I met her daughter.

But it turned out Sue’s daughter was waiting for us in the living room.

This was the first thing that Nicol Malapert Thompson ever said to me.

It was also the second, third, fourth and fifth thing she ever said to me.

Sue’s daughter roared with laughter. I wanted to join in but how could I? Her so-called joke didn’t make any sense. What did the sucking of feet have to do with sweets? It wasn’t even remotely funny.

Nicol clambered onto the sofa, paused for effect, and then yelled at the top of her lungs:

Every time Sue led Nicol up the wooden hill to bed, the little comedienne would creep down again a few minutes later; we could hear her giggling as she tiptoed towards the living-room door, preparing to deliver her killer punchline for the umpteenth time. This went on for about an hour, until Sue gave in and Nicol was allowed to sit with us while we watched the Nine O’Clock News.

I glanced at the rectangular bulge in my donkey jacket and sighed.

Sue decided to stay with Nicol in her bedroom until she fell asleep. She told me that she’d come back downstairs again later – if she could stay awake. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was 11.20 p.m.; Doctor Who was due to start in ten minutes. I told her not to worry about me and to get some sleep.

With Sue gone, I urgently flicked through the channels on her cable box – past the German quiz shows and the racy Italian movies – until I found UK Gold. As I waited for part 2 of ‘The Curse of Peladon’ (Jon Pertwee, season 9, 1972) to begin I could feel butterflies in the pit of my stomach. This was partly because upstairs were two people I instinctively knew were going to become the most important of my adult life, but mostly it was because I’d never seen ‘The Curse of Peladon’ before.

It was 11.28 p.m. when the living room door opened again.

Sue knelt on the floor in front of the sofa, obstructing my view of the television.

Sue moved closer. As the theme music swelled to its familiar crescendo, she prised the remote from my hand.

And without breaking eye contact, she aimed it behind her back and switched off the television.