“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.”