I want to get up early for a run, love.

My lower back’s playing up again. Pretty sure it’s sciatica.

… Or maybe lumbago? Yeah, I think it’s that.

Ouch! Sorry, I got a twinge when you did that …

Such is the loin-stirring effect I have on my beloved. One day he’ll be desperate, breathing hotly in my ear and I’ll be the exhausted/sciatica-bothered one. Sorry, mate, you had your chance! The prospect of denying him sex cheers me hugely while I make scrambled eggs for the three of us, and by the time we sit down to breakfast, I have just about forgiven him for his grumpiness earlier.

I even find it within myself to apologise, basically for being a woman, growing older. ‘Sorry I’m being so narky,’ I say, sipping my coffee. ‘It’s just horrible, waking up feeling like a slimy reptile.’

He eyes me levelly, this man who is supposed to love me and, by extension, possibly care about the hormonal stew I have found myself in. ‘I think you’ll find reptiles are dry-skinned, Viv,’ he says.

Chapter Two

Monday, February 11

First day back after half-term, and Izzy and I are speed-walking to school. I am trying to greet the new week with a positive attitude and forget about how snarky and unsupportive Andy has been lately. Maybe it’s work pressures and I should try to be more understanding of his needs? I know his job is pressurised, that everyone is overstretched, that working in a major hospital under tighter and tighter budget restrictions is no picnic. And, Christ, I respect what he does.

However, the reptile thing is still niggling me, especially as he added, ‘I’d say you’re more … amphibious,’ while quirking his left eyebrow in that irritating way that always makes me want to thump him (have I always been this intolerant, with fury simmering just below the surface, or is it a new thing?). Plus, I’ve noticed Andy using the phrase ‘I think you’ll find’ quite a lot recently, and not just in a reptile context. For instance, we have a worrying fan heater in our bedroom (Andy really feels the cold), which he refuses to throw away, despite the fact that it emits a burning smell sporadically.

He insists it’s perfectly safe. Being male, with that x-ray vision all men have, he can obviously see through the white plastic exterior to its inner workings and be confident in his diagnosis. ‘I think you’ll find it’s just the dust inside burning off,’ he added, last time I ‘went on’ about it (i.e. happened to mention that it smelt worryingly close to burning the house down).

‘But should there be dust in it?’ I asked. ‘And, if so, is it meant to “burn off”?’

‘It’s fine!’