I went to visit Mrs Receding Hairline last weekend, and it was surprisingly like checking up on an ageing relative. I helped make sure she had clean clothes. I threw out the nice full bowl of mould – never lift a plate without first checking with the woman of the house how long it has been there – and sterilised the crockery in the dishwasher. We took a carload of cardboard to the recycling and a sack of old clothes to the charity bins. And then we went for a run in the country and had fish and chips in a pub near Westerham.

In fairness to the poor dear, life has been almost intolerable recently – worse for her than for me – and just keeping body and soul together is challenge enough. Also, last weekend wasn't all country jaunts and hilarious tales of hyphae, and I damn well need a holiday. That won't happen until after The Move, and that throws up new head-fucks every day. Dear everything: please just all be over.