Play: at the weekend, Mo and I visit my parents again. They’ve stopped taking every available opportunity to ask when they can expect to hear the patter of tiny feet, which is a minor blessing, but our inability to talk about work and their inability to talk about work (because Dad’s recently retired and his idea of a hobby is watching EastEnders) are leading to increasingly uncomfortable gaps in the conversation. Mum insists on baking cakes, and Dad discovered one of the secrets of a happy marriage early on (never criticize your spouse’s culinary skills) and applies it as a religious observance. So, let’s just say Mum’s cakes are sub-optimal and leave it at that, shall we?

Despite the lack of children there is a new and exciting presence in our life. When we get home, we discover that Spooky has expressed her displeasure at being left all alone in the dark in typical feline fashion, right in the middle of the front hall. Mo waits outside in the cold while I deal with it, and it takes considerable effort to persuade her that she doesn’t actually want a new fiddle right now. In other news from the Fur Kids Department, the expensive new cat-tree goes unused, the living room sofa receives the Spooky imprimatur of best scratching post ever, and every open cardboard box in the house receives a mysterious lining of shed hairs. Spooky is a graduate of the “if I fits, I sits” school of feline furnishings. (If Mo ever gets serious about getting rid of the cat, all she needs to do is to leave an open FedEx shipping box on the kitchen table.)

Spooky has also developed a bad habit of waking up in the middle of the night and screaming that she’s being attacked by an axe murderer (“Help! I’m all alone in the dark! Where are you?”), then haughtily ignoring me when I go downstairs to see what all the fuss is about.

And don’t get me started on vet bills. Let’s just say that civil service salaries and pet ownership are two lifestyle flavors that really do not go well together.

The following Monday I get up at my accustomed time to find Mo is in the kitchen, suited and booted and double-checking her go-bag. “Jesus, what is it now?” I ask. “I thought we were supposed to be looking for a spa break?”