“Every car you’ve ever driven has been filthy”

MY SISTER — resolutely urban and under-whelmed by country life — has arrived from London.

Swinging her suitcase into the boot of my car in the airport, she says suddenly “you’ve got to be joking,” and swings it back out. “I’m not putting my suitcase in there.” I glance inside the boot, where our 15-year-old dog (alive) lies under a thin mantle of hay. She opens the side door, spreads out her newspaper and places the suitcase on top of it. “What is it with you and cars?” she asks, huffing into the front seat while I close the boot.

I start the engine. “What in god’s name is that smell?” she says. My sister opens her window in theatrical disgust and sticks her head out. I explain that I tracked down the source of the smell yesterday — a mackerel-paté sandwich my husband had forgotten he’d put in the glove compartment — but she interrupts; she doesn’t need details, thanks, all she needs to know is have I got rid of it? I reassure her I have.