It is Sunday morning, and I am in a deep bath, reading a book. The house is quiet, or it would be if my wife wasn’t shouting at me from bed over the noise of the radio. “Did you see the thing in the paper about all the men who had affairs?” she yells.
“No,” I say.
“They were all very sorry,” she says.
“I’m reading,” I say.
“Very, very, very sorry,” she says.
“Well, that’s all right,” I say. “As long as they’re sorry.”
“But sometimes sorry isn’t enough,” she says.
“I think if you’re truly…”
“Sometimes, you have to move out for ever and live in a tiny flat.”
“A new beginning,” I say. “A fresh start.”
“A tiny flat in a bad part of town,” she says.
“Near all the cool restaurants,” I say.
“Quiet!” she shouts. “It’s the Archers.”
When I go downstairs a bit later, my wife is in the kitchen, wiping surfaces and still listening to the Archers omnibus. No speaking is permitted until it’s over, at which point she turns the radio down.
“You need to put that chicken in the oven,” she says. “And then you need to go and get wine.”
“We have wine,” I say.
“You need to get more,” she says. “Constance is coming to lunch.”
The youngest one walks in and waves a copy of Weekend magazine under my nose. “You owe me five pounds,” he says. He is clearly trying to take advantage of a longstanding arrangement by which I have agreed to pay my children £5 if they are ever directly quoted in this column. But since the arrangement places the responsibility for spotting quotations on the children, I rarely have to shell out, because they never read anything I write.
“Show me,” I say.
“This bit,” he says, pointing.
I skim the paragraph in question. “That’s not reported speech,” I say.
“You made me sound like a dick,” he says.
“Maybe a little,” I say, “but I’m actually paraphrasing your explanation.”
“I don’t talk like that,” he says.
“Read it again,” I say. “It’s a summary of your account, so technically exempt from the…”
“Pay him the five pounds,” my wife says.
“Fine,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “Don’t tell the other two about this.”
By the time I get back with the supplementary wine, Constance is standing in the kitchen. “Hey, handsome,” she says. “You’re looking even more handsome than usual.”
“That’s weird,” I say. “Two people told me the exact same thing on my way back from the shops.”
“Anyway, they were all very sorry,” my wife says, slicing through an onion.
“Who?” Constance says.
“The men who were having affairs,” she says.
“What are you talking about?” Constance says, turning to look at me. “Is he having an affair?”
“No, he isn’t,” I say.
“It’s me that’s having the affair,” my wife says.
“Are you?” Constance says.
“No,” I say.
“I am,” my wife says. “I’m having two affairs.”
“I think you’ll find two gentleman callers would require rather more effort than you’re prepared to put in,” I say.
“That’s why they’re interested in me,” she says. “Because they know I’m not interested.”
“That’s right, sweetie,” I say. “That’s what’s kept me here all these years.” I wrap one arm around her waist and lay my head against her shoulder – gently, because she’s holding a knife.
“Eugh!” Constance shrieks. “Don’t touch each other! You’re married!”
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s disgusting, at your age,” Constance says. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “We are.”
