Francis is back. He sits in his car for several minutes, motionless. The good news is that the engine's off, so it's unlikely to be an attempt at carbon monoxide poisoning. The bad news is the other interpretation - that he's finding it hard to muster the necessary reserves to say hello to his new 24/7 life with his lovely wife and family.
Still, the dog is thrilled. After several hours of being mauled by Deborah, who insists that it enjoys being pulled along the floor by one paw, its whimpering rush towards him is, I suspect, code for, "If you're thinking of leaving, please take me, too."
"Are you OK?" I ask. It's not a brilliant conversational starter for ten, but it will have to do. "I've done my back in and I've got no job, but apart from that, I'm fine," he says, laughing bitterly and walking stiffly to the front door, like somebody at a Woodentops tribute gig.
Action is called for. I ring Alice to see if she's still on for camping over the bank holiday weekend. Bill wants to go. Francis wants to go. The children want to go. Alice and I would rather french kiss a haddock than spend more than five minutes under canvas. (I've not actually checked this with her, but I understand that some of the larger specimens are really quite attractive).
Alice sounds tearful at the mere thought of camping, but says she'll think about it. I know how she feels. Weeing into a bucket in the small hours and producing gourmet one-pan meals over a bunsen burner may be a lifestyle choice, but it's one I'll embrace only if the men come to serve us with a repossession order.
We agree to talk again tomorrow, and I go to tell Francis of the magic I plan to weave into his miserable life. Hang on. What about his back?
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