Ralph has headed into Godminster, to take the 8.06 a.m. to Waterloo and to proceed with his life as if all hell hadn’t broken loose. So around the time when the pub is filling up for the hallowed rural institution still known as ‘morning coffee’, I rush round to the Dairy, to tell Rose the awful news. Even though the thought of coffee makes me want to gag, I am looking forward to sitting in her warm, sunlit yellow kitchen, with its flagstoned floor and fresh flowers, the smell of Christmas chutney or Seville marmalade simmering on the Aga, and nibbling something home-baked and buttery.

‘Rose?’ I call out softly, as I am arriving unannounced.

I push open the glass back door, where her weathered, glossy Spanish tasselled riding boots are paired, like something out of a boot advertisement. The inner door to the hall is also closed, and today’s post and Guardian are in a neat untouched pile on the wonky mediæval oak settle that stands against the Germolene-pink plastered walls.

‘Pierre?’ I trill.

I am suddenly getting a strong feeling, like a loosening in my bowels, that I shouldn’t be there. But I don’t bother to pop my head around the door into the dining room, the study or the drawing room, and march through the house to the kitchen. They live in the kitchen – well, Rose does.

As I approach the closed kitchen door, I hear Pierre scrimmaging about in the back entry-hall.

‘Rose?’ he shouts, in a plaintive voice. ‘What have you done with that special flint that I left on the ledge here, very carefully, which I said I was saving? Please don’t tell me you chucked it out. I don’t think I could stand it!’ His plaintive voice rises to a wail. Then he glimpses me in the passage. I am standing in the kitchen doorway, watching Rose and Jesse Marlon.

Now, while I am not entirely spotless in the marital department myself (as everyone appeared to know within five minutes of me arriving in Honeyborne), I don’t honestly think even I could ever have sex with someone I could have given birth to.

They don’t see me for a few seconds but then Rose opens her eyes and focuses on me. For a second, I see relish flare in her eyes before lust disengages and conscience kicks in, and she pulls out of Jesse Marlon’s arms and removes her hands from their resting place on his lean buttocks.

‘Oh HALLO, PIERRE,’ I say, in a loud, meaningful voice, flashing my eyes at Rose and raising my eyebrows at Jesse Marlon. ‘I’d love to have a look round your studio,’ I continue, as the lovebirds rearrange themselves and I back out of the kitchen, clicking the door shut behind me. ‘Could I have the guided tour of the east wing?’