This re-emergence of the old Camilla in a new atmosphere of bitter domestic resentfulness was the immediate consequence of our trip to London and Stonehenge. And I do mean immediate. There had been no incubation period, no slow simmer of grievance; there hadn’t even been a discussion. The sleeping bag had been tossed down to me the minute we got back – we had driven into the village in one of those ghastly pearl-grey dawns that mock all adventurers of the mind or body – and there I remained for the duration of the summer, sharing the floor with the spiders, whom, in lovelessness, loneliness, and a determination to hang from high places in the hope of catching something, I soon came to resemble.

I cleaned out the school each morning, attending minutely to the written instructions Camilla left me, dogged her footsteps each afternoon and night – literally padding after her, sometimes – and erupted into shameful and largely ignored frustration at the weekends. The only words I could ever get out of her after I’d pleaded, threatened, and on occasions even sobbed, were, ‘What’s the matter with you? I’m giving you what you want.’

‘You aren’t, you aren’t!’ I would call after her as she left the cottage, provocatively dressed and luridly made-up to go God-knows where, to meet Christ-knows who, to do the Devil-knew what.

So why, if she wasn’t giving me what I wanted – and she wasn’t, I swear she wasn’t – why did I not simply leave? Why didn’t I fold the sleeping bag up neatly one morning, put it back into its bag, pack my three suitcases, scribble her a note to the effect that I was still her husband in law, could not be expected to suffer such cruel torment any longer, would be in touch with her through my solicitors, and go?