She bores me with the details of late shipments, a fungal delivery of Belgian chocolates, the problems of labelling genetically modified food.

I stand and gather together keys and cigarettes, clip my pager to my belt. ‘Well …’

She stands, moves round the table and I walk out to the hallway, where she leans against me as I unlock the front door. I turn and we kiss again, her hand touches my beard. We separate and she asks, ‘When will you be home?’

And maybe I say six, or eight, or nine. ‘And you?’

She shrugs. ‘Sevenish, probably.’

We kiss again and I leave.

In summer I walk straight to the pick-up, jump in and slide into the day. In winter I stand and scrape off the ice, watching it fall in irritating, dry white lines. And then I slide into my day. I know that when I’ve gone Sonja stands for a moment in the hall and scratches, yawning, perhaps examines herself in the hall mirror. She tidies the kitchen, then goes upstairs to run her bath. As it fills she chooses her clothes and lays them on the bed. Sonja floats into her day, slipping slowly into the scented water and dressing languidly. But once the front door’s closed behind her and she strides down the path she’s a dynamo. It’s just that it takes her engine longer to grind into motion.

We both work six days a week and sometimes I work seven. This doesn’t happen often but when it does I think it’s my fault for having accepted too much work, or having taken on the wrong crews. I love my work so I don’t mind but I know that Sonja minds very much. What can I do?

‘Take on less work, do fewer jobs, make less money,’ Ian says.

Our evenings vary a little. Usually after we’ve eaten we sit and read novels or newspapers. We have a television but Sonja generally listens to Radio 4 or to music. I watch football when I can because I don’t need subtitles and there’s no plot to follow, particularly when England are playing. Sometimes I finish work early and go to the deli to pester her as, hair slipping, she flits about, wrapping and sealing. I try to persuade her to go for a drink, a meal, a coffee and eventually she accedes, grumbling about being rushed. Sometimes we play pool and drink pints and she matches me pint for pint. Or maybe we just walk along Whiteladies to the Triangle and down Park Street to St Nicks or the docks. Once there we might have a drink and catch the bus home. Or we walk up Blackboy Hill to the Downs to look at the sunset clipping the suspension bridge. Sometimes we go to see a subtitled film. At weekends we may have friends over for dinner, or maybe go to their houses. Friday nights I go out with Ian, and Sonja goes out with Clare, a friend from university who lives in Bristol.