Being competitive about the weirdest things

Wednesday, 3 pm, Gort. We are driving up to visit my sister in Sligo, and in keeping with time-honoured tradition, the sky suddenly drops out of its customary high position and lands on the bonnet.

The only surprise is that there isn’t a thud. “Right on cue,” I say, “the minute we get to Gort.” “See if you can resist the urge to say that to your sister the second you see her,” my husband says. “It’s like someone’s just closed the world’s lid,” I say, “and you know what?” “What?”

“As soon as my sister claps eyes on me, she’ll say, ‘Honestly, I don’t know what’s happened to the weather, it’s been like Bordeaux up here all week.’” “She only says that because you carry on as if West Cork is St Tropez.”