Francis and I had got into the habit of e-mailing important dates to each other, partly because we're a modern family finding our way in the fast and furious world of modern communications, but mainly because I forgot to buy a 2007 calendar. Admittedly, my dates were more of the 'worm dog' and 'think up lie to avoid coffee morning' variety as opposed to Francis' ones, which sparkled with hotel names and flight numbers.
Tonight, Francis sends me the latest version, which is now a lot shorter, and a note saying, "Not much left for me on this now - go out when you like...."
I celebrate my new-found freedom with a late-night trip to Tesco, where the man next to me in fruit and veg starts talking to the Braeburns. 'Not so loud,' he keeps hissing. I assume he's a paranoid schizophrenic. Then I spot his tiny earbud and and realise he's simply on the phone.
At this time of night, it's not easy to distinguish dyed in the wool crazies from up to the minute technophiles, especially when the dress code - stubble, mad stare, slightly grimy clothes - is the same for both. I'm so relieved not to be taken hostage and forced to wear an explosives-filled belt (so unflattering - when will they come up with a range that includes stomach control panels?) that I attempt a chatty exchange with the nice recorded lady at the do it yourself till, who urges me repeatedly to put everything in the bagging area. I've had worse advice. And at least it makes a change from packing up my troubles in my old kit bag, I suppose.
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