‘Is she okay?’ I asked, alarmed. ‘It’s early, isn’t it?’ We often chat in our back gardens and she’s been keeping me up to date. I’ve felt sorry for her, actually. From being voluntarily laissez faire regarding Ludo’s antics (read: rampant destruction), lately she’s just seemed steamrollered by it all.

‘She’s thirty-seven weeks,’ Tim said. ‘I’m going to take her to hospital now. The problem is, my parents had planned to come and take care of Ludo but they’re still on holiday, not due back till Wednesday night. There really is no one else I can ask.’

‘Of course he can stay with us,’ I said, reaching for his hand. ‘It’s no problem.’ Ludo looked decidedly unimpressed, and Izzy was studying him with interest as if he might suddenly launch into an exotic dance. ‘Come on in, Ludo. Have you had dinner yet?’ He shook his head.

‘Sorry,’ Tim muttered. ‘We haven’t managed to get anything together …’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll fix something. Just get off to hospital, okay?’

He smiled bravely and gave me a quick, awkward hug. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll call when we have news.’

‘Can’t I come, Dad?’ Ludo whined.

‘You can’t go to hospital,’ Izzy retorted, ‘when your mum’s having a baby. Come in with us.’

So here he is, still clutching his small tartan rucksack, peering around our kitchen in the manner of a health and safety officer who is finding the premises sorely lacking. Admittedly, standards are lower here than at his place. Potatoes are creating their own little sprouty jungle in the vegetable rack, a load of non-perishable groceries has been sitting on the worktop for two days, waiting to be put away, and a box heaped with bottles is parked by the back door, awaiting recycling. I pour the kids glasses of orange juice, prattling on about how school is, and what does he think of their new teacher (Izzy and Ludo are in the same class, although you’d never know it by all the interaction that’s going on). Really, I’m just jabbering away, filling space, leaving no gaps for him to start quizzing me about divorces again.