I shall be staying far away from this place, out of harm’s way. Safe from insult on my birthday.

1pm. I am upstairs in the Emporium, lying underneath a table, working on its legs.

Paul is shouting up the stairs. “Oi, Mutton,” he roars, “I’m going to get lunch.”

Until my fringe grows out, it seems I must endure this new nickname which, as long as you keep bearing possible alternatives in mind, is easier than you might think.

When it comes to nicknames, it’s a case of ‘better the devil you know’ I feel.

It’s infinitely preferable to ‘miserated ****’, that much is certain.

I am enjoying the break under the table and reluctant to cut it short.

“Mutton,” he shouts again, “are you deaf or what? What do you want for lunch? I’m going to get it now.”

“If there’s tomato soup, then I’ll have tomato,” I shout, “if not, then chowder. If there’s no chowder, then as a last resort, vegetable.”

“WHAT?”

“VEGETABLE.”

Paul returns with vegetable soup.

“My treat,” he says. He passes me a spoon and a sachet of pepper.

“Was there no tomato?”

“There was.”

“Chowder?”

“There was.”

“So you were just feeling vindictive.”

“You said ‘vegetable’,” he says.

“I said vegetable as a last resort.”

“Eat your last resort and don’t be annoying me, you miserated ****.”

I lift the lid on my carton of soup.

“This vegetable soup smells of a nursing home,” I say.

He passes me a plate for my bread.

“Grand so,” he says, “you’re old enough for one of those. In fact, remind me when your birthday is again.”

“No.”

“Saturday, isn’t it?” he says, “call in if you’re passing.”

“I shall be staying far away from this place, out of harm’s way. Safe from insult on my birthday. My sister’s flying over and my daughters are coming down.”

“Please yourself,” he says.

3pm. I am upstairs, back under the table.

“Oi, Mutton,” he shouts up the stairs, “I’ve got blackberry crumble down here.”

I descend the stairs. Paul is slicing up crumble.

“Sit your skinny arse down,” he says, passing me a plate “and get some of that down you.”

“Talking of skinny,” I say, “we’ve just booked our holiday in Greece.”

“What’s Greece got to do with anything?”

“Bikini season,” I say.

“What about it?”

“It’s not the quantity of my flesh that will be the problem in a bikini. It’s the quality.”

“I told you you were old enough for one of those,” he says.

“Old enough for one of what?”

“Nursing homes,” he says, “now shut up and eat your crumble you stupid old crone.”

My birthday, mid-morning. I am keeping out of harm’s way; I have collected my sister from the airport and my daughters are on the way down for the day.

I am feeling rejuvenated! I am full of the joys of spring!

Saturday afternoon. We are out on the cliffs at Galley Head. My sister and I spot three seals.

Time rewinds itself; we stand there on the cliff-edge like we used to when we were small, clapping our hands and shouting hello at the seals as if Dad was still alive and standing beside us, telling us to.

(“They like that,” he used to say, “sociable animals, seals.”)

We climb up onto walls and jump down off them. We throw ourselves down into the bouncy cliff-grass to have a picnic.

Saturday, 7.30pm. I have kept out of harm’s way; we have booked a table in a restaurant for 7.45pm, and walking towards the car right now, I feel... renewed.

“Why!” I think, getting into the driver’s seat and refurbishing myself with lipstick, “I feel like a spring chicken.”

“This is nice, this spring-chickeny feeling,” I think, starting the engine, “after all, age — as they say — is just a number!”

“There’s a message on your phone,” my husband says from the passenger seat. He picks up my phone as I reverse the car out of the gate.

“Well, what does it say?” I say, changing gear.

“It’s from Paul,” he says, “it’s a link. I can’t seem to open it.”

“Pass me the phone,” my sister says from the back.

“Well what’s he got to say for himself?” I say, putting the car into neutral and turning around in my seat.

My sister says, “he says, “Happy Birthday Bikini Girl.”

“I am safe from insults!” I think, putting the car into first.

“And then...” my sister says, thrusting her arm forward and holding it in front of my face, “...there’s this:”