‘I’m not going,’ he says to Poppy, who has jumped on his lap now and is looking at the boat suspiciously. She has short legs, she doesn’t tackle long grass in wet weather, so he can forget the sea!

‘Too bloody expensive anyway.’ George looks at the price and his eyes bulge. All that money. All that cricket, though … The sound of leather on willow … There’s nothing else like it. ‘Come on, dog. Wee and bed for the both of us.’ Poppy jumps down and runs to the back door, barking.

Later, teeth brushed and put into the bedside glass of water, George closes his eyes and pictures the ship. Him in a tiny cabin, being rocked to sleep. Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Fastnet. German Bight. A pile of sausages, fat and crispy. Cricket whites hanging out to dry in the sunshine. The sound of balls being tossed and caught, dropped and saved. Howzat, eh, George?

Dan

(Five-star review)

‘GET UP, ATTICUS! I’M taking you to Bournemouth.’ Dan surprised himself when he booked the tickets, but the Ironman is so close he’s tapering down his training and can think of nothing better than Atticus and a hotel room for the weekend, before the big day.

They stay in a dog-friendly hotel called the Martory Inn. It smells of mildew and the woman on Reception frowns when she sees Dan, Atticus and Fitz wagging their tails, wanting to check in. The room is cold and doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned since the last guests departed. Two lumpy singles are pushed together with a yellow candlewick counterpane draped lopsidedly over the top. A doily-covered bedside table, with a lamp that doesn’t work and a Bournemouth magazine, six months out of date, complete the decor.

Atticus wants to iron his shirt, but the woman on Reception tells him there is only one iron and she’s already lent it to ‘someone … perhaps room fourteen’. Atticus spends half an hour meeting all the hotel guests, and their dogs, but returns sans iron. Dan apologizes for it not being the kind of place Atticus is used to.

‘Shut up, Daniel-sun. I bloody love it.’

They go out and eat fish and chips from newspaper on the beach. Fitz runs in and out of the tide, barking at the waves, and Atticus kicks off his loafers and wades into the sea, his feet blue with cold when he emerges.

After two frankfurters with ketchup, no mustard, and an hour of ball-chasing, Fitz is ensconced in a nest on the bed, with Countryfile on in the background, while Dan and Atticus go to a nightclub on the seafront.

‘Fancy wiping your feet on the rhythm rug, Daniel?’ Atticus says after a triple gin and tonic.