"I can’t look or she’ll think I’m a pervy loser”

SUNDAY, 10.30am. I’m standing in a café doorway, looking for my husband and his cycling companion.

They’re easy to spot; getting up at the crack of dawn and cycling inordinate lengths has left both men with red, constipated-looking faces, and a sheen of righteous sweat.

They sit collapsed in their chairs like puppets whose strings have just been snipped. I sit down opposite them — upright, fragrant and after a nice long lie-in, full of beans.