Ken, 72, has lived at number 3 for thirty-one years — the last four of them alone, since Eileen died. Retired postman, tidy garden, feeds half the street's cats. This month, a fixed-rate savings bond he and Eileen opened years ago has matured: £28,000, currently sitting in his current account while he decides what to do with it.

On Tuesday morning, the phone rings.

The young man is polite, well-spoken, and — Ken notices — patient, which makes a nice change. He's calling from the investment division of a bank whose name Ken has known his whole life. He knows Ken's full name and address. He seems to know the bond has matured, "as your provider will have notified us." And he has something for savers in exactly Ken's position: a fixed bond paying 9% a year, guaranteed, capital fully FSCS-protected. "Considerably better than the 4-ish percent the high street will offer you, Mr Morgan— sorry, Mr Harris, forgive me."

One thing, though. The allocation for this tranche closes at 5pm today. "I'd hate for you to miss it over paperwork. I can hold your place with a first transfer of £10,000 — you can add the rest once your welcome pack arrives."

The man chats about the weather, about Ken's garden. It's the longest conversation Ken's had since Sunday.