“Toiling away in obscurity — for free”

HOME, 8pm — “Bradley Wiggins is on the Honours list,” my husband informs me as I enter the kitchen.

“Well, bully for Wiggo,” I say, standing in the doorway, cold and wet. It has been a fitful day, punctuated by frustrations coming in mean little clouds from places on the horizon you’d never think of looking; puff; puff; puff.

I’m sporting a look that’s grossly aberrant — an old dressing-gown fastened with my husband’s tie, tracksuit-bottoms, and “farm-collie” hair, bound by an elasticated head-torch; it’s a look so far from fetching, it would make even the postman — whom I’ve surprised with many unbecoming outfits over the years — flee.