Ah, nine o'clock. Time for the first customer of the morning, Mrs Lansbury.
Stuart approached the ever familiar Shaftesbury Lane - with a gleaming grin on his face? Quite possibly.
Modelling his favourite lilac shirt and yellow tie, he strode up Mrs Lansbury's pathway, holding his clipboard, and rapped her red door.
It opened to a fair haired fifty something woman wearing a dressing gown, who clutched a mug of tea.
'Morning, Stu.'
'Good morning, Mrs Lansbury,' he said, possibly too cheerily for first thing in the morning. 'Life insurance. Might that interest you?'
Mrs Lansbury chuckled, taking a sip.
'I'm not reliant on a Zimmer frame just yet, you know.'
Stuart skimmed down his clipboard.
'Well, if ever the wind changes, I'll be right here with some superb offers.'
Mrs Lansbury smiled.
'See you in thirty years, then, Stu.'
'Thank you, Mrs Lansbury.'
'Thanks,' she said, and shut the door.
Five o'clock. Yet another lot of happy, valued customers under his belt. Time to retire for the day. A baked potato was calling his name. Martin could make him one - that's what husbands were for.
The front door swung open, to the sound of hoovering.
'What a glorious day,' Stuart said, removing his tie and approaching his husband.
Martin switched off the hoover and kissed Stuart, who then strode into the kitchen.
'I fancy a baked spud, Mart,' he said, browsing the fridge. 'Get the oven on, will you?'
Martin entered the kitchen, heading for the appliance.
'Any luck with Mrs Lansbury, this time?'
'Sadly not. Always tomorrow, of course.'
He said it with a sly grin.
Ah, ten o'clock. Bedtime. Stuart emerged from the bathroom in his favourite strawberry-print pyjamas, sauntering over to the double bed, and climbed in beside Martin, who was reading the paper.
'What about that woman, down in number thirteen?' he asked. 'You tried her yet?'
Stuart shrugged.
'No, though, it's a terribly big house for just one person. I'll go there tomorrow, nine o'clock sharp.'
Martin grunted, replacing his paper.
'Porridge in the morning?'
'Sure.'
Stuart yawned, stretching.
'Night, Mart.'
'Night.'
Martin switched off his light.
Stuart looked over to the chest of drawers facing him - or rather the top drawer, brandishing a smug little grin. It was his favourite drawer, as it happened.
