Making some tea and toast for breakfast, I take my time over it. I should be donning the bunny outfit and getting out there with my bucket to whip the men of Milton Keynes into a veritable frenzy of giving with my pink sponge, my winning smile and my cute little pom-pom. But I lack the enthusiasm today. I’m taking no pleasure in my victory, and without Lauren here to chivvy me on, be my partner in crime, I’m finding the prospect of a day’s car washing in little more than my underwear quite daunting.

I could call my sister and ask her to come back to help me again, but my heart just isn’t in it. Yesterday’s post is still waiting, unopened, on the table. All we ever get is bills, bills, bills – so no one is ever in a rush to check out the contents. As I eat my toast, I slit open the first envelope. Gas bill. Ghastly. Then the second. Credit-card bill. Deplorable. The third is clearly from the bank, and I hope that we’re not overdrawn yet again. But no – inside the envelope is a cheque. I get a bit excited for a minute, thinking that I might have come into some money, but when I look closely it’s Chelsea’s cheque for £100. The letter with it tells me that the cheque has been refused due to ‘insufficient funds’. Chelsea’s cheque has bounced. It can’t have! The bank must have cocked something up. It wouldn’t be the first time. God, that means I’m going to have to give it back to her. How embarrassing. Why is none of this straightforward?

Dragging my feet, I go back upstairs and get the Bunny Girl outfit out of the back of my wardrobe. I throw my middle-aged mum’s towelling dressing-gown on the bed and pull on the fishnet tights, then the snug corset with the ridiculous white fluffy tail. Slipping on my stilettos, I take a long, hard look at myself in the full-length mirror.

I look stupid. Utterly stupid. Greg’s right. Why did I think that it was a good idea to humiliate myself in this way? Is this trip really worth putting my marriage under this terrible strain? What am I trying to prove?