In the countryside the winter is long and desolate, tamed only by a few days of joyous sunsets and crisp-white fields. Mostly though, the farm buildings huff and hunker in the endless rain.

“You’re just a city softie.” Fionnuala was curled up on the sofa with a hot water bottle and Lemsip. “This is all to make the spring, when it springs, all the sweeter.”

I envied my wife and her cold. I was like a blue-arsed fly sorting out wee ones, washing, doing dinner and dessert; but thank God I didn’t have to go back outside. The storm the night before was still howling and no-one should be out in that. I planned to light the fire and let a big Aussie Shiraz breathe on the mantlepiece.

“Fabien?” Fionnuala was reading her WhatsApps. “Could you do a wee favour?” I didn’t like the use of the word “wee”.

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