“What are you winking at me for?”

In the car, 3pm, windscreen wipers on full speed, destination: “Historic Guesthouse.”

My husband is driving. I’m making a sandwich for him on my lap. Spreading butter, mayonnaise and relish with the back of a plastic teaspoon, I consider his condiment requirements. I feel they are inordinate, given the 70mph-and-cutlery situation.

“I’m really looking forward to this weekend break,” my husband says, “just the two of us.”

“You couldn’t find an exertion more tiresome than making a bloody sandwich on your lap, even if you…” I break off suddenly, disconcerted by my husband winking at me.

“What are you winking at me for?”

“You’d better bring your A-game.”

“What do you mean I’d better bring my A-game? What’s an A-game?”

“It’s what a coach might say to his team before a match… it means be ready, you know, be on it, bring the best you’ve got.”

“Bring the best you’ve got of what?”

“The best of your attitude and abilities,” he says with another wink.

6pm. Having arrived at Historic Guesthouse. We are having tea for three: me, my husband and the owner — a formidable woman who’s taking us through the provenance of every antique in the building.

6.15pm. Discerning guests are thin on the ground; there’s no one here but us. We discover that “at 8pm sharp” we will be having dinner for three. She’s looking forward to getting to know us, she says. She believes we’ll find the history of the guesthouse and the extensive renovations which it has recently undergone, “very interesting”. “However,” she says, “there is a couple — very discerning if you know what I mean — due to arrive from Portlaoise in the morning.” They’re looking forward to meeting us, she says. Looks like dinner for five tomorrow.

7.00. We’re shown to our bedroom, in which there is no TV; she says the discerning guest [pained look] does not normally ask for television.

7.10. My husband and I are sitting on the edge of an antique roll-top bath, looking at each other in fright.”What the hell have you booked?” he whispers. “I can’t remember,” I whisper back, “it looked fine on the website.”

“Did you put a deposit down?”

“No.” He gets up, looks out of the window. “We can jump,” he hisses, “it’s not that high. Oh my god, you’ve booked us a weekend with Hyacinth Bouquet and a couple of swingers from Portlaoise.”

It’s clear to me that my husband’s had some sort of conniption; now he’s looking up at the ceiling as if for an escape hatch.

“We’ll just have to explain…”

“We?” he blurts, forgetting to whisper, “no way. You bloody booked it.”

“I’m not explaining anything. She’s too doughty for my liking. I’ll phone her from a safe distance.”

“Well what then?”

“Right, we’re going to leave five euros for the tea and do a runner. You’re going to do a recce and then we’ll walk casually down the stairs, past the kitchen as if we’re just getting our bags from the car — and then we make our getaway.”

“I’m going to do a recce?”

“Just do it.” He opens the door then shuts it quickly. “She’s standing in the corridor,” he says.

“Wait a minute and check again. When the coast is clear, we’ll go.”

He opens the door. The coast is clear.

“Now!” I command. We walk casually down the stairs.

“She’s in the kitchen at the bottom of the stairs,” he whispers.

“Where are the car keys?” I hiss.

He pats frantically around his person.

“They must be in the ignition,” he says, wild-eyed.

“They’d better be,” I say, “if you’ve left them in the drawing room we’re bolloxed.”

We walk casually past the kitchen and outside, where suddenly, coming over all Bonnie and Clyde, I shout, “run!”

7.30pm. In car, getaway accomplished. Destination: any corporate hotel.

“Give me five,” my husband says, raising his palm.

I smack him five. “Good job I brought my A-game,” I say.