Should I be pleased that my husband has no desire to ski down the slopes of Gstaad or own a flash yacht moored in St Tropez? Would I like to have a ruthlessly ambitious husband who was a workaholic and never at home? Or is there a fine line between being contented with one’s lot and becoming a sloth? At what point does being laidback tip into downright laziness?

‘What’s all this about, Annie?’ he says, his expression troubled. ‘We’re okay, aren’t we?’

‘I just feel . . .’ What can I say? Stifled? Suffocated? As if life is passing me by without me being involved in it? Would Greg even begin to understand how squashed, squeezed and suppressed I feel?

‘Is there anyone else?’ he asks bleakly.

I laugh out loud at that. ‘God, no! How can you think that?’

My husband looks relieved. I take his hand in mine and stuff them together into his pocket as it’s bigger than the ones in my jacket. I’ve never had to question Greg’s fidelity. I’ve always known where he is at all times. He’s always at the canal. With Ray. Any woman who wanted to entice Greg away from me would have to dress up as a fish.

‘I just want to do things,’ I confide.

‘What kind of things?’

‘Anything.’ I break away from him, twirling around, letting the wind tangle my hair. ‘I don’t know.’

He spreads his hands, beseeching. ‘Then how can I know?’

‘Hey – remember that this is a naturist beach now?’ I shout to Greg as I spin away from him – although today there are no hardy souls baring their wherewithal to the bracing sea air.

My husband wrinkles his nose again. ‘That’s horrible.’

‘It’s natural,’ I correct. ‘Come on – how much to get your kit off and sprint to that sand-dune thingy?’

‘I wouldn’t do it for all the tea in China.’

‘A hundred quid,’ I tease. ‘If you strip off and run along the beach I’ll give you a hundred quid.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘No way.’

‘Give me a hundred quid and I’ll do it.’

Now he looks cross.

‘No,’ Greg says sternly. ‘This isn’t funny, Annie. What’s the matter with you? Is this about your hormones?’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘Leave my hormones out of it. You men! That’s always your answer to everything.’

‘Let’s go and get a cup of tea.’

‘I want to feel something, Greg!’ I’m shouting now. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to feel the wind on your skin?’

‘It’s freezing.’

I pull off my anorak. He’s right.

But I can’t stop now. I’ve been gripped by a frenzy, an urgency. If I don’t take all my clothes off, I think that I’ll die of frustration or boredom or something else that I don’t quite understand.