To make matters worse, he had become obsessed not only with his condition, but with its accoutrements. The most prized among these was a footstool he used to make evacuation more comfortable. It had been recommended to him in a faecal forum. Rather than a simple plastic stool that could be purchased anywhere, he invested in an ergonomic timber one; comfortable, warm, but still easy to clean. The forum had a preferred artisan who took Connor’s foot size and height into consideration. Connor loved that stool. Whenever we went away for the weekend it came with us in the car.

‘Anyway. Tell me about your day,’ I said, spinning my glass of wine. I’d given up joining him in his misery, and was halfway through a bloody steak.

Connor addressed our son, Samuel. ‘We went to the park,’ he said. ‘Didn’t we?’

Samuel nodded enthusiastically. ‘Daddy saved a seagull.’

‘He did?’ I knew I sounded sarcastic, but Samuel didn’t seem to notice.

‘It was hurt,’ he said.

‘I just called the council.’ Connor cut his chicken breast along the grain. ‘Poor thing couldn’t fly. It was the least I could do.’

I could tell he wanted to be congratulated for his humane behaviour, for the good example he was setting.

‘They’ll just euthanise it, you know,’ I said. ‘Kinder to let the other birds kill it.’

They would, too. I’d seen the way those gulls went at each other.

Samuel looked at me, appalled. He got up from the table and ran to his father. Connor bent his head to Samuel and I wished, once again, that Connor wasn’t going bald. He looked like a villainous, wispy invalid, the more so because his paleness made the rims around his eyes seem a bright watery red, like tomato skins.

Connor put his arm around Samuel and hushed him.

‘You said seagull would get better,’ Samuel said. Then he commenced whimpering.

This annoyed me. Samuel was a smart child – smart enough to understand the word ‘euthanise’ – and he knew where to put a definite article. He reverted to baby talk to soften up my husband. This was unnecessary. If Connor were any softer you’d be able to eat him with a spoon.

‘Mummy doesn’t mean it,’ Connor said, looking over him to meet my eye. ‘Mummy’s had a hard day at work. She’s very tired.’

Mummy was two glasses of wine down and hadn’t had satisfactory penetrative sex in more than a year.

‘Daddy’s right,’ I said. I drained my glass. ‘Mummy’s very tired.’