"This,"I say, "is the bedtime routine I’ve yearned for"

Week one.

I may have had to duck under his pull-up bar in the doorway just now, so as to keep both my eyes in their sockets — and tripped over his weights — but I have not had to run the gauntlet of his Spiderman Scuttle* or plank.

“No Spiderman for eight weeks,” he says, sitting up in bed with his foot elevated, looking anxious for his muscles’ future, “or plank.”

He flops back into his pillows, looking at the ceiling, all forlorn. “Feels odd, this,” he says, “doesn’t feel right just getting into bed.”

“Read this,” I say, and pass him a book, for I intend to make the most of my new reading environment, what without the Scuttle and all.

Week two.

Well! My husband has got into bed — just like that. Without any fitness frolics at all.

I approach the bed without having to vault over my husband. “Feels too easy, this,” I say, climbing in and reaching for my book.

“What does?”

“Just walking casually to bed instead of having to watch for a sudden opening and make a dash for it.”

“Whatchya reading?” he sighs, staring at me all woebegone.

“My Brilliant Friend,” I say, “Elena Ferrante, first in a series. Unbelievable.”

“What’s it about?”

“A brilliant friend,” I say.

Week three.

I enter the bedroom unimpeded by gymnastic equipment and get into bed.

“Where are your weights?” I say, “why are they not lying in the doorway, waiting to fell me like a tree?”

“Under the bed,” he says, sitting up in bed and attaching headphones to his iPhone, “I can’t use them till my achilles has repaired a bit.”

Silence falls.

“This,” I say, reaching for my specs, “is the bedtime routine I’ve yearned for, ever since seeing that film.”

“What film?” he says, putting headphones in his ears.

“‘Another Year,’” I say, “the Mike Leigh film, we saw it years ago — with that nice old couple Gerri and Tom, who go to bed, take out their books and read together in companionable silence.”

Week four.

I’m thinking, this really is most promising; my husband lies in bed beside me, “rediscovering music” while I read. I couldn’t feel more serene.

Week five.

My husband is dancing. In bed. “Listen to this,” he says, handing me an ear phone, “Muse. Amazing.”

“Listen to this, Foo Fighters! Incredible!”

“By the way the physio said to massage my achilles every night. He says to get you to do it.”

“OH MY GOD REMEMBER THE SPECIALS?”

Week six.

My husband is doing something weird with his foot, hands and a stretchy rubber band in bed. His earphones are in; “FLEXING MY ACHILLES,” he shouts, “PHYSIO SAID,” after which he starts humming, though I’m not sure what. All in all, I consider, things are not looking good for Gerri and Tom.

Week seven.

My husband is lying in bed with earphones on as I enter the bedroom. He is keening.

“BUT IF YOU LUUUUUUUVED ME, “WHY’D YOU LEEEEEEEAVE ME?”— and I can’t help wondering where the Gerri and Tom thing’s gone.

“AND ALL I NEEEEEED IS TO FIND SOMEBAAAAHDY, I’LL FIND SOMEBAAAAHDY.”

“Stop it,” I say, “or I won’t massage your leg.”

Week eight.

“GOODBYE MY LUVVA, GOODBYE MAH FRIEND, YOU HAVE BEEN THE ONE, YOU HAVE BIN THE WAAAAN FOR ME.”

I stand in the doorway, under his pull-up bar. James Blunt: I’m afraid to go in.

“I’M SO HOLLOW, BEBBEH, I’M SO HOLLOW… I’M SO, I’M SO, I’M SO HOLLOW.”

I go in. He is lying in bed with a soulful expression.

“Oh hi,” he says, pulling out his earphones, “there you are! You can listen to this while you massage my leg.”

*Spiderman Scuttle is a hip-flexion exercise which comprises scampering quickly sideways like a crab, on all fours across a floor.