‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, darling. Steak comes from cows. As does beef. And milk. And leather.’ (I was quite reasonable!)

‘So …’ he said. ‘Would this be a baby cow or a grown-up?’

I had forgotten, you see, that he has a little pet cow at the Parishes’. A little runty thing that has grown quite big now and has free run of the place.

‘Oh, O-yo,’ I said. ‘An infant cow. But not a baby. Say, a year and a half old?’

‘Paddy Cow is five,’ he said.

‘Well, isn’t she lucky to get so old!’ I said. ‘Isn’t she lucky: she’s not ever going to end up on someone’s plate.’

Owen considered that for a bit, and then pushed his plate away. ‘This could be her brother,’ he said.

‘Or sister,’ I said.

What else could I say?

‘Yes, it could be Paddy Cow’s brother or sister,’ I said. ‘And every chicken also has a brother or sister, as does every sheep, and every fish, and every pig.’

‘I won’t eat it anymore,’ he said. ‘I won’t eat any animals. I want to care for animals, not eat them.’ And so he didn’t. I gave the steak to the dog next door, and heated Owen up a can of baked beans. Later, he stuck his head in the door to check whether there was ‘animal’ in salami (an Italian sausage), and though a little crestfallen by my affirmative response, he nodded valiantly and went back to his bedroom.

Italian cuisine, I have reminded Jo, is a cuisine dominated by vegetables. But Jo is disgusted. And I know he holds me responsible. He feels I have somehow feminised Owen. I did not know that the eating of meat was somehow masculine and the eating of vegetables, feminine. But it has put another rift between us. Yes, Owen’s vegetarianism is another thing that makes Jo angry with me. But as Jo will not sit down long enough to discuss it, what am I to do? If I ask him to put aside a little time to talk about anything I am severely reprimanded for my selfishness: because don’t I know he is feeding the poor and the homeless? Well, sometimes I want to shout all the poor and homeless fish and chips just so’s I get a day occasionally with my husband.

Perhaps there’s no point anyway: Jo and I, should we get stuck together for a whole uninterrupted two hours, might have nothing to say to each other. I feel like rapping with my knuckles on his head, ‘Jo, Jo, Hello, are you in there?’

So there you have it.

And re your last query: No. I’m crestfallen—but not surprised. Of course I will go and visit Hannah. I will take her a cake and a stack of magazines. I understand her desire to be a young thing, free in the world, without a silly old aunt getting in her way.

Send recipes for hearty vegetable stews and soups with beans in them.