I approached this book with a small amount of fear. Not the “hide behind the sofa because something scary is about to happen” kind of fear, but the nervous feeling you get when something has a lot to live up to. It wasn’t because I thought the book looked bad, or that I wouldn’t enjoy it. Far from it. The problem was that it was following my favourite read of the previous year, Calling Major Tom. That book had wrapped itself around my heart, made me laugh, made me think, and left me with that lovely warm feeling you get when a story feels like a good friend.

The big question was: could this book create the same magic? Could it deliver another emotional punch without simply trying to recreate the last one?

The answer is yes. But thankfully, it does it in its own wonderfully peculiar way.

This isn’t another adventure with Major Tom, which is probably a very good thing. Some stories are so perfectly formed that trying to squeeze a sequel out of them would be like trying to get another cup of tea from a teabag that has already given everything. However, this book does exist within the same universe, giving us another glimpse into the world created by David Barnett.

This time, we find ourselves at the fictional (I think?) Morecambe University, where a group of students discover that their new accommodation isn’t quite ready. Rather than sleeping in tents or being forced to live in a cupboard under the stairs like some unfortunate wizard, they are temporarily moved into Sunset Promenade, a care home.

And because apparently someone thought, “What could possibly go wrong with putting teenagers and elderly residents together under one roof?” the whole thing becomes part of a social experiment to see whether two generations, who appear to have very little in common, can actually connect.

Of course, they can. But not without a few bumps along the way.

The residents of Sunset Promenade are wonderfully drawn. Each has their own quirks, histories and personalities, and they quickly become more than just background characters. They feel like real people, the kind you might meet sitting in a café, although hopefully not the kind who steal your favourite chair and then claim it has been “their chair since 1987.”

At the heart of the story is nineteen-year-old Jenny Ebert, a student who has transferred from Loughborough after an embarrassing incident. Like many of us at that age, Jenny is trying to figure out who she is while simultaneously attempting to become the person she thinks she should be. Her chosen inspiration is Lauren Bacall, because apparently reinventing yourself is much easier when you have Hollywood glamour as your blueprint.

Joining Jenny at Sunset Promenade is Ringo, a Liverpudlian resident whose nickname has a wonderfully unexpected explanation, and a pair of Chinese students from the university’s business school. The care home itself is run by two brothers who are determined to provide affordable care, while the tireless Florin, an Eastern European carer, seems to be doing the work of about seven people while everyone else wonders where he gets his energy from.

Add in the colourful collection of elderly residents and a few supporting characters, and the result feels like the cast of a very funny, occasionally chaotic, but deeply heartfelt sitcom.

The beauty of the book is in the way it handles its themes. It is funny, but it isn’t afraid to explore difficult subjects. Beneath the humour are discussions about loneliness, identity, stubbornness, acceptance, Brexit, and the simple human need to feel valued and understood.

There are so many moments where you want to stop reading and say, “Yes. Exactly that.” The kind of moments where an author has reached into a complicated part of life and somehow made sense of it. I won’t list them because discovering those moments yourself is part of the joy.

One scene that particularly stayed with me involves Mr Robinson, an elderly resident who begins to question how his decision to vote for Brexit might affect the future he has left. It’s a quiet, thoughtful moment that captures something important: behind every opinion is a person, and behind every person is a story.

I needn’t have worried that this book would fail to follow Calling Major Tom. It is completely different, yet it carries that same ability to remind us of the importance of kindness and connection. It explores what happens when two groups, both convinced they have nothing to learn from each other, are forced to share a space and discover that maybe they aren’t so different after all.

In a world where conversations are becoming increasingly angry, where “plain speaking” is sometimes used as an excuse for being needlessly cruel, this book offers a gentler message. Understanding someone doesn’t mean agreeing with everything they say. It means taking the time to listen.

The Growing Pains of Jennifer Ebert left me with that rare feeling of finishing a book and wanting to hug it. Not literally, because that would damage the cover and look slightly strange to anyone watching, but emotionally.

A beautiful, funny and touching story that proves the simplest idea can sometimes be the most powerful: if we want a better world, we have to start by talking to each other.