However, my ability to register a man’s attractiveness clearly hasn’t died. Perhaps it’s the novelty aspect; there hadn’t been a handsome newcomer in my house since the cute tiler redid our bathroom six years ago, and Jules kept making her ‘How’s the grouting going?’ jokes. So, with the prospect of Nick’s visit tomorrow being a little nerve-racking, I have already decided that the Bobby handover will be conducted in a brisk and businesslike fashion.

‘Is that Bobby?’ Ludo calls over the fence when Izzy and I are playing with him in the garden.

‘Yes, it is,’ I reply.

‘Why’s he at your house?’

‘He’s just here for a little holiday,’ I say. ‘Penny’s away overnight.’

He comes right up to the fence and peers over, blond hair falling shaggily into his face, and something like blackcurrant jam smeared around his mouth. ‘Hi, Izzy.’ He grins at her.

‘Hi, Ludo,’ she says, throwing Bobby’s tennis ball, which he scampers after gleefully.

‘Is it nice, having him to stay?’ he asks.

‘It’s lovely, yes,’ I reply.

‘What does he eat?’ Ludo wants to know.

‘Erm, he likes fresh meat.’

‘What kind of meat?’

‘It’s a kind of steak for dogs.’ In fact, being Penny’s dog, and adored to the point of distraction, Bobby consumes only the finest minced beef, which comes in plastic trays; no dry pellets or even canned dog meat for this little prince. It is virtually on a par with human food. I describe this in detail to Ludo, before moving on to questioning him about the baby (‘What does she do?’ ‘Poos and pees!’). Although he won’t divulge much more than that, it’s preferable to any further grillings about the whereabouts of my errant, soon-to-be-ex-husband.

‘Can I come round and play?’ he asks hopefully.

I hesitate, but decide to allow it, for the sole reason that I can’t think of a reason to say no, and don’t want to seem mean. And, surprisingly, the afternoon passes pleasantly, with me being on high alert, watching Ludo’s every move in the manner of a store detective shadowing a potential shoplifter. Chrissie seems overwhelmed with gratitude when I return her son, happy and tired, several hours later.

‘Say thank you to Viv and Izzy for having you,’ she says.

‘Thank you,’ he mutters to his chest. Then, as I turn back to our house: ‘Will Bobby sleep in your bed?’

‘No, Ludo. He has his own luxury basket,’ I say with a smile. ‘I wouldn’t let a dog sleep on my bed.’

‘Does he have a duvet as well?’

‘Er, no. It’s a fleecy blanket.’