I haven’t been on holiday this summer, but don’t start tuning the tiny violins. I derive an unusual satisfaction from working when others aren’t (burning martyr is my preferred summer fragrance) and I don’t like change, or strange pillows. Plus, what would Susan, the pigeon who lives on our roof, and my bounteous crop of five unripe tomatoes do without me?

A summer holiday just doesn’t appeal. Is that weird? It feels as if the climate crisis is killing the notion of summer as something to look forward to and holiday hotspots (literally) are losing their lustre, with Greek islands reaching fatal temperatures and Sicily stricken with catastrophic drought.

Getting there is horrible, too. Train travel should be bliss, but privatisation and other people have put paid to that. Cars mean having to tetchily navigate tailbacks as Sabrina Carpenter tunes bore into your brain, or crying as your navigation app redirects you – and every other road user – along a dirt track, where local people, who had never seen a stranger until........

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