Fuss is good, I decide as I make dinner. It gets people noticed and makes things happen. ‘Not making a fuss’ seems to equate to remaining under the radar, being insignificant, trying to please and do the right thing, and receiving no recognition for it.

I’m aware that Rose’s previous PA – my predecessor – was known as a ‘bit of a character’, and a ‘powerhouse’. Although our paths rarely crossed while I was temping, it was clear that she wasn’t the kind of woman Rose would ask to deal with pubic hairs on loo seats, or her patio-hosing man, or to research ‘the best kind of eardrops, the really strong kind – so when you put them in, you can hear the wax crackling. That’s the kind I need. Could you get on to that for me, Viv, and have them delivered tomorrow?’ Sure. Would you like me to drop them into your lugholes while I’m at it?

I glance across the kitchen at Izzy, who’s doing her homework diligently at the table as I stir our pot of unremarkable, workaday Bolognese. Christ, even my cooking is without fuss. I can remember this being one of my mother’s staples, circa 1983. Nothing wrong with that; she worked full-time in a secondary school, and back then few people knew about preserved lemons and or how to ‘toast’ pine kernels in a pan. If my mum had been presented with a Yotam Ottolenghi cookbook she would have laughed bewilderedly and maybe used it to prop up a wobbly bed.

So it’s fine, this life of ours. But is ‘fine’ actually enough anymore? Have I slumped, unwittingly, into a dreary working-on-and-on kind of rut, and is that the real reason why my husband stumbled into the knickers of a swishy blonde doctor with perfect teeth?

Meanwhile Izzy has been given the task of making a poster about wetland habitats in Britain, and the issues and threats they are facing. Yes, she’s the kind of child who works on and on – she actively enjoys homework – but she gives it her all, she goes the extra mile, not to gain praise but because it excites her to do her best.

When she cooks, it’s a fuss. No one grinds up garlic and rock salt with a pestle and mortar if they want a quick, easy supper. And now, as well as the poster, Izzy has taken upon it herself to make her very own nature magazine: The Wetland Wanderer. I found her some paper and stapled several sheets together, and now she’s filling the pages with facts and drawings, a cartoon strip of a duck family, environment-themed quizzes, a short story about an otter, and a hand-painted poster in the centre featuring a barnacle goose. She’s been using my phone to send photos of her pages to Spencer, who’s responded with, ‘Great work sis!’ And ‘Looking forward to issue two. And a forthcoming media empire!’