With a heartfelt sigh, I haul myself out of bed, regretting that my ritual Sunday-morning soak in the bath isn’t going to happen in this house. You can’t even have five minutes to go to the loo in peace here. My sister has perfected the art of the six-second shower. She rushes in and out so quickly that I’m surprised she even has time to get wet.

Deciding that I don’t even have the energy for any ablutions beyond a quick scrape at my teeth, I opt for a ‘French wash’ instead—a squirt of Daisy’s Flower Fairy perfume under each arm. I have a quick rub round with some foundation, pull on yesterday’s crumpled clothes—because that’s exactly how I’m feeling—and reluctantly plod downstairs to face my mother’s verdict on the proceedings.

Grandma Cecilia is sitting on a kitchen chair while Daisy—bless her—is kneeling on the kitchen table putting pink, spiky rollers in her hair. Edie is fluttering her eyelids angelically at my mother’s back. My mother has her tolerant face on. Daisy is tugging at her hair with a Glitter Girl comb. If there were a TV programme called Hairdressers from Hell, then my niece would surely appear on it. So this is how my sister managed to keep her quiet. I can’t help but smile.

‘I would have thought you’d got very little to laugh at,’ my beloved mother observes, instantly wiping the grin off my face. ‘He’s got someone else, you know. They always have.’

Because this is based on years of bitter experience with my father, I resist the urge to point out that not all men can be tarred with the same brush.

‘I never liked him,’ my mother continues. ‘His eyes are far too close together.’

Not that I’m defending him, but for the record, Jake has perfectly spaced eyes. ‘He’s taking a few days to think about things.’

‘Men don’t think,’ my mother states. ‘They are genetically incapable of logical thought.’

Is it any wonder that she hasn’t tripped down the aisle again? My mother is tall, but still managed to produce two fairly petite daughters—we must be genetic throwbacks, or as Mum insists, all our worst traits come from my father’s side. She’s slender and is still a looker. Today she’s wearing a pale grey cashmere fitted dress that matches her eyes, and I bet she managed to turn a few heads in church—and not just because she mutters darkly through most of the service. The reason she has chosen not to re-enter the unholy state of matrimony is that she harbours a deep suspicion of all things male that borders on the wrong side of hatred.

‘Come home to Mummy,’ she says, addressing me as if I’m younger than Daisy. She takes my hand and pats it.