I’d respond to my husband but that would mean lifting my head into a typhoon

IT’S 4.30pm in Cork and my husband and I are setting off towards the airport on foot, at a fast trot.

So far, our journey has proceeded exactly as it always has, in every regard: my husband has parked the car in his secret parking spot miles away from the airport and it is starting to rain; I am wearing no coat and the wrong boots.

“Perhaps now that we’re unequivocally proper grown ups,” I say, trotting alongside my husband, “we could start parking our car in the short-stay car park like other grown-ups. You know, update our airport routine.”