‘What’s all this about?’ my husband says. His face is red and he is frothing at the mouth.

‘It’s about raising money for my trip to Peru,’ I say calmly. ‘And we’re doing very well.’

‘It stops now,’ Greg says, and he kicks over our sign declaring, LET THE BUNNY TWINS RUB YOUR BUMPERS!

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so cross.

‘I knew you’d be unreasonable,’ I say quietly. ‘That’s why I’m doing it while you’re out.’

Our waiting customers are out of their cars now and are watching with interest our developing domestic crisis.

‘Except I’m not out now,’ my husband points out. ‘I’m home. I came home because I’m feeling dreadful with this bloody cold. And I come home to this. This. I had no idea what was going on when I saw the queue outside our house. What will the neighbours think?’

I put my hands on my hips and shout back, ‘Some of them obviously like it. They’ve already had their cars washed!’

With that, a dark cloud comes over him and he grabs hold of my bunny ears, snatches them from my head and throws them to the ground. Then he jumps on them. Three times.

Now he has gone too far.

‘I don’t know who you are any more,’ Greg spits. ‘You’re not the wife I’ve been married to for the last twenty years.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I spit back. ‘I’m glad you’ve realised that.’

Greg and I square up to each other, me armed with my pink sponge covered in suds, Greg armed with the moral high ground. My sister comes over.

‘Greg,’ she hisses, ‘calm down. You’re showing us up.’

‘Showing you up?’ My husband’s eyes bulge alarmingly. I should imagine that his blood pressure is currently off the known scale. ‘You’re the ones in Bunny Girl get-ups! You’re middle-aged women. What do you think you look like?’

A posse of men with folded arms have gathered at our gates. ‘We think they look great,’ one ventures.

My husband wheels on him. ‘Who asked you?’

‘It’s for charity,’ our brave champion continues recklessly. ‘Give them a break.’

Greg’s response is to stomp across the drive and kick over our buckets.

Lauren and I stand there impotently. There is a disapproving grumbling from our customers. Mutters of, ‘Killjoy’, and, ‘Spoilsport’, are heard.

I sigh deeply. ‘I think that our car-wash is closed for this evening,’ I tell them sadly.

Greg is sulking at the side of the house, hands wedged in his pockets.

I take a deep breath. ‘It will, however, recommence at ten o’clock in the morning.’

A cheer goes up. Placated, our customers go back to their cars.

‘See you tomorrow, darling,’ one of them shouts.