I pull up at the house and kill the engine, but I leave the key in the ignition so I can still hear the radio. I tell Mikey and Joey that I have a bit of work to do this afternoon for the office, and that they had better be quiet and just play about without annoying me. I suggest that Mikey makes a start on the new Diary of a Wimpy Kid and that Joey might consider reading anything other than football magazines. I tell them that we lost the game because we were sloppy but to tell their mother that it was a draw. She doesn’t like tales of failure that much. I don’t know why, exactly, but I go along with it. It’s easier that way.

I have difficulty opening the front door with my key. The loss of dexterity in my fingertips from standing about is a killer. I call out, telling Jenny that we’re home, but she doesn’t respond. I tell Mikey and Joey to leave their muddy boots on the front step, because I am sick of mud being walked all over the house. The boys pull at their boots and leave them in an untidy pile outside and we go into the kitchen. Who is in the kitchen drinking coffee like a lord? None other than Jerome Fagan.

How are you, Jerome? I say.

I don’t give a fuck how he is, but I want to know what he’s doing here in my kitchen and how long he’s been in my kitchen while I freeze my balls off and lose my voice at the football. I remove my winter coat and leave it hanging on the kitchen door. I know this annoys Jenny. That’s why I do it.

Jerome Fagan is Jenny’s ex and he’s a persistent cunt. He has an air of self-confidence that goes brilliantly with his white-starched shirt. Jenny maintains that I should be kinder to him because his wife is dead, and he’s rearing a boy on his own. I find it hard to believe that a man who has the audacity to sit comfortably at my kitchen table while flicking his fair hair back from his tanned face and charming my wife is in any kind of serious mourning.