‘Sometimes, I think he feels it’s safer to chat through a dog’

9PM, at home in our new town house. The nuts and bolts of selling our old farmhouse have been accomplished, but the buckles and braces require some attention.

Tonight’s agenda has included searching for a colander, box of important paperwork, dog–lead and pair of cycling shoes with cleats on.

9.05pm. We decide to abandon our search, and adjourn the discussion that has been accompanying it: How on earth our new, very compact, open–plan living arrangements might accommodate the sounds of televised soccer, cricket, and rugby matches.

“A passionate interest I’d die without,” as my husband puts it.

Or as I put it: “In a house this size, a passionate interest that I’d most certainly die from.”

It is a pressing issue, but we have reached an impasse: Neither of us is prepared to die.

We sit down on the sofa, both wearing our new efficient–central–heating–system, at–home clothing — a pair of my husband’s boxer shorts and a T shirt.

It is as unforgiving a look on me as my farmhouse at–home clothing ever was, just in a different way; less “Igloo Outerwear as Innerwear” and more... “Town Slattern”.

“So this is what normal people wear in normal houses then?” I say, opening my book, “in the evening, I mean, when they want to be comfortable?”

“No,” my husband says, “they’d wear loungewear.”

“Say that again,” I say.

“Loungewear,” he says, pulling up the dog onto his lap.

“I like the sound of that.”

9.10pm. “It’s too bloody hot in here,” my husband says. “I’m going to open a window.”

“Say that again,” I say.

“I’m going to open a window.”

“Say it again,” I say, “just one more time. The novelty will never wear off.”

He opens a window.

“That’s better,” he says. “It gets stuffy in here with the windows shut.”

“Say that again, too.”

9.15pm. “It’s so quiet without the television,” he says.

“Say that again,” I say.

“Tell her to stop it,” he says to the dog. “Go on, tell her, Tilly,” and he gets down onto the floor to better chat with her.

9.16pm. “It’s so peaceful,” I say.

“A bit too peaceful isn’t it Tilly?” he says.

Sometimes, in certain situations, I think he feels it’s safer to chat through a dog.

“This room could be a little silent oasis,” I tell Tilly, for sometimes I think it’s safer, too.

“I mean what’s a man to do, Tilly, without Match of the Day?” he says. “What is he to do?”

“I’d like to live without television,” I say, directing my conversation towards my husband; the finer points of this conversation, I feel, may be lost on a dog. “I’d like to live without it for the year or so while we rent.”

“And there was I, Tilly,” he says, “thinking I might even get Sky Sports. Yes, you should look sad, Tilly because I’m sad, too.”

“Sky Sports?” I say. “What would that mean?”

“Being able to watch test cricket,” he says.

“Why don’t you just kill me now and have done with it?”

“No Match of the Day, Tilly,” he says, in sorrowful tones, “no test cricket, no Sky Sports, no cycling shoes...”

“Oh for God’s sake, what do your cycling shoes look like?” I say.

“They’ve got cleats that...”

“What are cleats?”

“They’re funny plastic things you clip on to the bottom of...”

“Oh those things,” I say, “they’re in the cabin, in the big wicker chest at the back, behind your bikes.”

“What else has she put out there in the cabin, Tilly?”

“Your bar–thing is there too, the one you hang upside–down off like a fruit–bat. And your weights.

“It’s like a bloody men’s den out there. Especially now I’ve taken my chandeliers out.”

He stops talking to Tilly, looks at me, then turns to the dog.

“A men’s den, Tilly,” he says loudly and clearly, quite as if the dog and I are deaf. “Did you hear that Tilly? A men’s den.”

“Yes, a men’s den,” I say, falling silent; sometimes, falling silent is safer than talking through a dog.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking Tilly?” he says. “Are you thinking that there’s a fully furnished cabin five miles away? A men’s den, just crying out for a Sky box?”

“Where we can watch test cricket together to our hearts’ content? Is that what you’re thinking, Tilly?”

“I’m quite sure that’s what Tilly’s thinking,” I say. “Knock yourself out. Bit chilly out there though.

“You’d have to light the stove. You could go back there a couple of nights a week and binge–watch all you like, and this place can be a civilised haven.”

“A solution,” he says.

“Neither of has to die,” I say.

Sometimes, in order to overcome an impasse, you need to bring your best virtues.

But in the absence of these, sometimes you just need a dog.