It does mean that I’m spending two or three hours every night making sandwiches and baking cakes – Chelsea, of course, never pointed out the downside to me. But what else would I be doing but watching mindless television and letting my brain turn to mush. By the time I’ve finished though, all I can do is fall into bed in an exhausted heap. Which is not a problem as Greg and I are hardly swinging from the chandeliers at the moment. Despite a distinct thawing in our frosty relations, we are still doing non-contact sleeping. No bouncy cuddles for me yet.

Still, I’m sure that me wearing a blue plastic boot isn’t a big turn-on anyway. And, if it was, I’d be worried.

I give Blake Chadwick his cheese and chutney sandwich and try not to think about sex. He hands over his cash with a winning smile. ‘Keep the change,’ he says. ‘Put it towards the fighting fund.’

‘Thanks.’

Things are a bit awkward between us now. I think he feels bad about the whole pineapple thing and I feel bad that I witnessed him snogging Minny when I thought it might just have been me.

‘How’s the foot holding up?’

I glance down at my attractive blue boot. ‘It’s okay. I have to make sure that I rest it at night.’

And, of course, our cosy little running sessions have been curtailed. Which is perhaps just as well.

‘You’ll still make it,’ he says encouragingly.

‘That’s the plan.’

But, to be honest, I’m not so sure. I have become a demon on my crutches, but as I lay in the bath last night, foot up on the side, reading my Peru guidebook, reality hit me. And it was a cold, hard slap. I’m never going to be fit enough to do this. My dream now seems so unreal, so unattainable. Sacsayhuamán, Tambomachay, Pikillacta, Rumicolca . . . will I ever see any of these places with my own eyes? Or has this trip just become a pipe dream? I may well manage to raise all my money in time, but can I possibly hop the entire length of the Inca Trail?

My heart feels too heavy to think of that now. I just need to focus on raising the money and religiously doing my physiotherapy exercises.

At five o’clock, Greg picks me up from work. He helps me to the car and I mutter about my day while he pretends to listen.

Blake Chadwick comes out after us and shouts across, ‘Want a hand?’

‘No, thanks,’ Greg says back, more crisply than he needs to. ‘I can manage just fine.’

Then instead of starting up the engine straight away, we sit in the car and my husband’s eyes narrow as he watches Blake get into his flash sporty number and drive off.