The rain has been so dreadfully constant over this past while that everyone’s mood has been affected.

It was mid-term this week and our house was a dark and damp, joyless den; every time the children went outside, they trailed mud and water in, and the dog has shaken his smelly fur around the food so much that we don’t notice any more.

The car’s so filthy there’s no point washing it; just wipe the number plate clean once in a while.

It doesn’t drive properly anyway, so violently has it been rammed into potholes.

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We had contemplated an overnight to Donegal but I worried that this heartless weather could put the children off the place forever.

A walk in the rainy forest is no longer an adventure to look forward to; no joyful splashing about in the puddles like a scene from a children’s TV show.

I come home from the shop and nobody even looks up from their devices. Listless and apathetic, our house resembles an old people’s home or a dog shelter.

Any notions of cooking a hearty meal are out the window as the air fryer is on a constant loop of sausages, crispy pancakes and Aunt Bessie’s chips. Who cares if we are malnourished, pale and lank haired: nobody ever sees us any more.

I woke up irritable and claustrophobic this morning and Fionnuala must have noticed, for she engineered a reason for me to go out to get a specific light bulb for under the hood of the cooker. And get something nice for dinner, she said sadly; I cant bear any more grease.

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I parked the car, huddled up against a biting wind and skipped past a giant puddle, but noticed that my feet were soaking anyway.

I love the shoes I was wearing and the thought of having to bin them was unbearable to me.

They were light-brown, stylish and comfortable – a quality shoe from an Italian make that had done me for many a happy year.

Was this end of the world weather? I felt like Matt Damon in The Martian, but instead of a dry red planet that never changed, all I saw was water.

“It’s been the wettest January in 149 years according to the Met Office.”

I had ducked into a shoe shop and an elderly man – a hanger-on who came in all the time – was sitting beside the fire talking to me and a younger man, who I learned was the owner.

I say fire, but it was really a stove and the younger man tended to it.

I was told to sit down and warm myself, and my coat was so damp I could hear the steam rising out of it. I was given a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit and the owner said at last: “Well, what can I do for you?”

“I think I need new shoes.”

“What’s wrong with those ones?” the old man said.

“They’re leaking.”

“Get new soles for them.”

“They aren’t leather-soled, and they have been very good to me, so I think it’s time to say goodbye.”

“Gimme a look – there’s plenty of miles left in those ones.”

He picked them up and handed them to the owner, who disappeared through a beaded curtain.

I wondered at what was going on in this strange shop as my feet were warming beside the lovely stove.

The old man was denying the owner a sale, but nobody cared and pretty soon he came back with a spare pair of shoes and said to collect the repaired ones in two days, and it would be £25 all in. “And as good as new.”

The owner smiled at me kindly. I got up to leave, wearing the used shoes, and the old man waved goodbye.

“I’m sure your wife will be glad you got your shoes sorted.”

“Why?” I was puzzled.

“Well, I’m sure you have something lovely planned with her for the special day.”

The rain lashed even harder as I stepped outside. What special day?

I looked at the date on my phone. February 14. Valentine’s Day.

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