Jenny makes fried eggs, and it seems unfair that I have had a stressful day at the office and that’s all that’s on offer. I am aware that she’s trying really hard with her sculptures and her sketches, but the bottom line is she’s not generating much of an income. I admit that I am disappointed. It’s all down to me, all the pressure is mine, mine alone. She wears a long wrap-around dress, a vintage rose velvet stitched along its edge. It suits her because it’s Friday and I have consumed four pints. I reach for the wine on the counter and pour myself a glass.

Soft, I say. I tap her on her cheek. Make sure mine’s runny. Where are the kids?

She doesn’t answer me and the thing is that I know that they are likely to be out on the green – in the dark, playing hide and seek in the copse of trees at the far end. Jenny likes to parent from afar, I myself am more inclined to being a helicopter parent, but we have a rule that I will try not to be over-protective. The carrot and parsnip soup that I had for lunch is repeating on me.

I move to the trees on the green and I call the children. I am gentle at first, almost tentative; they hear me but they ignore me and I try very hard not to let a notch of irritation enter my voice. They continue to blank me. I end up shouting for them and I walk back towards the house, wound up. I am pumped. My neighbour is putting out his recycling bin and catches sight of me. I shouldn’t sink to this level, but I do.

The egg on the plate has a greasy surface and Jenny has dotted it with black pepper and a piri-piri sauce for that smidgen of glamour. The egg is overdone but I know that I will eat it anyway. There are oven chips and baked beans. I will have a fluffy sensation on the roof of my mouth once I have consumed this family meal.

The children come into the kitchen and Maeve says, Daddy, you’re back, as if I have not been only moments earlier calling them.