Alan Bennett on Andy van der Meyde

It was a Sunday afternoon in October, an unusually warm afternoon in which I could leave my cardigan to one side and forget the hot water bottle. Sunday for me meant a read through the parish newsletter, time with the Sunday Telegraph crossword, accompanied by a particularly delicious angel cake made by Mrs Hird, an hour planting daffodil bulbs and the usual visit from Andy van der Meyde.

As the old grandfather clock struck five, he knocked at the door. I checked my pocket watch for accuracy, and bade him welcome.

"Shoes off please, Andy," I said. I am a firm old stickler when I want to be.

"Sorry Alan. Lovely day," he replied in his heavy Dutch accent.

"Are the apples in old Mr Archer's orchard still growing?" I enquired, knowing that he had to pass the cottage and its fields on his way through the village.

"Yes, red as you like," he said, smiling. "Here, have one."

He took a hidden apple from his bag and tossed it to me.

"You cheeky thing," I said, attempting a reproach, but I could not help returning his grin. He blossomed with the flush of youth. "Cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely, Alan."

"Would you like me to open the rich tea biscuits?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Or maybe," I continued, in daring fashion, "we could enjoy an apple pie."

As I prepared the beverages, Andy told me about his exploits that week. His career as a right-winger at Ajax Amsterdam was going rather well, it seemed. One of the side's nominated set-piece takers, he had taken a corner that weekend against rivals Feyenoord that led to a goal from Zlatan Ibrahimovic. He explained that international honours were not far away, that at 24 he expected to make the Dutch team soon, and perhaps with it a move to another club. £4m was the cost for his services. It all sounded terribly exciting.

"My oh my, a Dutch cap," I quipped, as he discussed his fortunes. A bird sang outside my kitchen window. "Listen, a chaffinch."

"No my friend, you are mistaken," he replied. "It is almost certainly a lesser-speckled warbler."

I trained my ear as well as I could, though it had never been the same since the man who used to live next door played his marching band cassette tapes at all hours.

"Oh look, it's time for Songs of Praise," I noted, taking the tray of tea, biscuits and Mr Kipling's into the living room. "I do hope it's at Durham Cathedral. I love some of the Greek-inspired architecture there."

"Couldn't we watch that hardcore lesbian porn DVD of yours instead?" Andy asked. I stared at him with my most hate-filled expression, the one I used when collecting Mrs Hird's pension money from the unfriendly post office down the road. Sadly, working over a boiling kettle had steamed up my lenses.

"Oh, all right then," I sighed, defeated. Andy broke his rich tea in half and dunked the smaller segment into his tea. I nibbled on mine.