Day three of Ludo. I have taken to closing my eyes at certain points at work, willing Chrissie to feel amazingly well today, so she and the baby can come home, or at the very least, Tim can be released and scoop up their firstborn and return him to the homestead. Several colleagues have asked if I’m okay, as I look a little stressed. Belinda even appears with a present for me: a tiny portable fan for my desk.

Back home, Tim pops in again briefly, and it’s all I can do not to throw myself at him and gather up Ludo’s things, stuff them into his rucksack and shimmy them out of the door. But alas, Tim’s presence is still required at the hospital and, in a flurry of sincere apologies, he zooms off again.

Still, his parents are back tonight, right? So they can take over the care of their grandson tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Izzy has become obsessed with Ludo’s toothpaste. Apparently, Tim and Chrissie ‘don’t believe in’ fluoride, as if it’s God, or Father Christmas, and not merely a tooth-strengthening substance highly recommended by the NHS. So sugar-guzzling Ludo never has tap water (in case ‘they’, whoever ‘they’ may be, have put fluoride in it) and his toothpaste is some vile-looking gunk made from sage.

No wonder the kid is reluctant to clean his teeth. What’s wrong with mouth-freshening mint, for God’s sake? The sage toothpaste’s rich, herbal stench has permeated our entire upper floor.

Thursday, August 22

Our fourth Ludo day. As Tim’s parents came back from holiday last night, the plan was for me to pick up Izzy and Ludo from after-school club and bring them home, as normal, and then the grandparents would appear as my saviours and whisk him away. However, Tim’s father is apparently unwell with food poisoning, or possibly dysentery, so they are ‘not up to’ looking after Ludo right now.

Neither am I, actually. As we walk back from school, with him demanding to stop off for sweets, and complaining loudly that our favoured shop – rather than the one they usually go to – doesn’t stock his required cola bottles/fried eggs, I pause to post a letter and inadvertently post my house keys as well.

‘Call the postman,’ Ludo commands, ‘and get him to open it up.’

‘He won’t do that, Ludo. That’s not how it works, I’m afraid.’

His dark eyes beam annoyance. ‘Why not?’

‘Because he only comes at certain times,’ I mutter, panic juddering up my chest. Ludo squints at the notice on the postbox that reads: ‘Next collection 10 a.m.’

‘We could sit here and wait?’ he suggests.

‘No, we can’t do that.’

He frowns. ‘It’s not that long. Look – it says he comes at ten o’clock.’