He turns back to his book, and I pretend to read mine, skimming the same paragraph over and over. Perhaps I’d get along better with Fantastic Mr Fox, which I am currently reading to Izzy.

I decide to try another angle. ‘Andy, d’you think I should try HRT?’

He gives me a confused look, which I might expect, were he not an endocrinologist: i.e. a doctor who specialises in hormones and therefore knows every sodding thing about them. And not any old endocrinologist either, but an eminent one, who travels the country to deliver lectures on the subject – although not to his wife, obviously. That would be far too troublesome. All this world-renowned oestrogen expert will say on the matter is: ‘Oh, I dunno, love. It’s up to you really.’

I fall into silence, unable to dredge up a response to that. Am I being unreasonable? I wonder. Is it crazy behaviour to ask one’s husband for advice when the subject happens to relate to his profession? Jules doesn’t seem to think so. Erol is a roofer and any trouble they have with their guttering, he has it sorted no problem. When their garage fell into a state of disrepair, he had it demolished and replaced with a spanking new one he built with his own hands.

My eyes are prickling now and I’m aware that I am dangerously close to crying. Get a grip, I chastise myself silently. Like Shelley suggested, he’s probably just tired and stressed. I should leave it until he’s more amenable.

‘I’d just like to know what you think,’ I bark at him. ‘I’m wondering if I should do something about it instead of just accepting all these horrible symptoms, you know? It feels like I’m losing my mind sometimes—’

‘Well, yeah. Perhaps you should see the doctor?’ he concedes, which has the effect of accelerating my heart rate to the point at which my entire chest seems to be juddering. I am seeing the doctor, I want to snap. He’s lying here a foot away from me in his stripy pyjamas and he doesn’t give a flying fuck.

Andy turns the page of his book, and I glare at him. Why won’t he help me? Does he want me to dissolve in a pool of anxiety and stress?

As he yawns and places his book on the bedside table, I tell myself to calm down and stop making such a drama of everything. Instead, I read recently, I should focus on the positive aspects of the menopause, like being able to enjoy sex (pah!) without fear of pregnancy, and being a wise, mature woman, who is graceful and elegant – as if we are all sodding Helen Mirren with sculpted cheekbones, still slipping easily into our size ten jeans.