Mum says that’s fine. See, I told you it would be handy living so close to her. Bye.

This is literally the first time I have ever associated anything positive with living so close to my mother-in-law, Janet. She is interfering and obsessed with her children. She is one of those women who probably had sex three times in her entire life, each of which resulted in a child. All of whom are a bit weird. Michael’s brother has been married and divorced four times and not one of his ex-wives will speak to him. I’ve met him seven times and on at least three of those occasions he has hit on me or offended me in some way. Their sister is single at forty-eight. She lives in a house share in Canary Wharf and is obsessed with conspiracy theories. I can’t handle more than a thirty-second conversation with her. When I had Tommy, she turned up to the hospital high on ecstasy and told me that she thinks Tommy is the reincarnation of Benedict Cumberbatch. I reminded her that he isn’t even dead, to which she answered, ‘Yes, but how do you know?’ Luckily, she hasn’t come to see us since.

My mother-in-law will, however, speak of her children like they are perfect and as if she did a sensational job of raising them. I just nod and smile. Janet is prim, thin and neurotic. I am informal, fleshy and balanced. If his mother and I met in any other capacity, we would very likely scratch each other’s eyes out. But because of Michael, we somehow keep our claws in. I am willing to restrain myself even more knowing that her hideous proximity to our house means that she will be available for regular babysitting in the future. This is OK with me, because I will be out, far away from her.

She arrives at 6.30 p.m. as requested and insists that she puts Tommy to bed. My evenings with him are precious and I look forward to his bedtime every day, but I sacrifice this one to get a night out with my husband. It’s OK, it will be worth it. I get changed. I have a pretty standard uniform for work at the moment: my skinny maternity jeans – I know it’s been four months, but they are soooo comfy – and a long shirt that I can open easily for breast feeding. I wear low-heeled boots and subtle make-up. It works for both sitting alone with Risky all day, and popping out for occasional meetings. But tonight, I want to spice it up a bit.