‘Let’s do something spontaneous,’ I urge. ‘The kids can see to themselves. They’re more than old enough.’ Although they might well still burn the house down. I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘They don’t need us around.’

‘I was going to go fishing with Ray.’

That’s all my husband ever does. I bite back that particular comment as unproductive if I’m trying to be encouraging. ‘Can’t you go another time?’

Greg looks uncertain about this clearly seismic change to his preordained timetable.

I recently read a report in the newspaper which said that men are at their most romantic at the age of fifty-three. That’s the time of life when they start writing poetry, sprinkling rose petals in the bath and booking romantic candlelit dinners for two in expensive restaurants without weeks of prompting. The conclusion was that by then they’ve had all the arguments with their spouse, made all their mistakes – a vacuum cleaner for one birthday springs immediately to my own mind – and have finally worked out what it is that their woman wants from life. On that reckoning, I have another thirteen years to wait before I’m whisked away to Paris on a whim.

‘Does it have to be this weekend?’ Greg says into my musing.

‘No,’ I say. ‘But I’d like it to be.’

‘Will it stop you crying?’

I risk a watery smile. ‘It might do.’

‘Then we’ll go. I’ll ring Ray.’ He goes to stand up, clearly thinking that this discussion is over.

‘Where shall we go then?’

He turns back to me, puzzled. ‘Cromer.’

‘But we always go to Cromer.’ I’m sure that I don’t need to remind my husband that it has been the destination for our annual holidays since we’ve been together.

I tell a lie – once when Greg had been given an unexpected bonus at work I persuaded him to go to Spain with the kids. The Costa del Sol. He hated every moment of it. He hated the sun. He hated being lathered in suntan cream every time he moved. He hated the food – though an awful lot of it involved chips. He hated the fact that everyone was foreign, except for all the English there. He hated the airport, he hated flying and vowed never to do it again.

It was such a traumatic experience for all of us that we have never ventured overseas since – either by plane, boat or train. I don’t even know if my passport is still valid. Can you understand now why dropping everything and jetting off to Peru seems such a daunting prospect to me? My husband has dumbed me down over all these years. It’s the equivalent of a normal person going to the moon.

‘Why don’t we try somewhere else for a change?’

Greg looks horrified. ‘But we like Cromer.’

‘We might like somewhere else too,’ I suggest.