Meanwhile, Christmas season in the pub. Jolly for some. Late nights pouring pints and braces of baby Guinness, young wans in Christmas jumpers and men singing in the loo or in farmer’s corner. Early mornings stocking and cleaning the bar. In between: office emails and feeding the cattle and checking off the mother-in-law’s endless to-do list.

As our grip on the days become tenuous, the husband and I turn rebellious. The husband goes off to shoot clay pigeons with his mates, and doesn’t return until late, having stopped in every pub in the county. I have sneaky drinks with the brother-in-law and his wife, the mother-in-law ringing the brother-in-law to ask if I’m there, and shouldn’t I be minding the dog?

This morning the mother-in-law calls me from bed (and my hangover/cold) to tell me there’s dog poo in the yard. She starts lecturing me as I pick up the poo, and I growl (very unlike myself): DO YOU HAVE TO LECTURE ME NOW?! I can’t wait till the second of January.

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