“I just wanted to check,” says my husband, carefully, lowering his Big Book of Naval History Volume 648 to his lap so I know to pay attention, “that our usual arrangements for the forthcoming 14 February – also known as Valentine’s Day – still stand?”

I have lowered my book too (Valerie Anand’s The Ruthless Yeoman, because historical fiction set in the Middle Ages is the only thing that is taking me far enough away from this war-torn, Trump-blighted, paedophile-billionaire-ridden world at the moment). This is important. I need to be clear. He deserves to be at ease.

“Our arrangements still stand,” I assure him. “Which is to say – there are to be absolutely none.”

“I like to reconfirm every five years or so,” he says. “Just in case hormones or some kind of genuine evolution in character has occurred and you have secretly started hankering after things that you have never hankered for before.”

“No,” I say. “Medical science has my hormones under control, and my personality hasn’t changed since the womb.”

“Good-o,” he says and we both return happily to........

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