Some legends never die. They just take longer to microwave

School.
Hymns: Jerusalem and The National Anthem.
Staff who don't know words: All
School motto: 'Striding purposefully backwards into the 1950s'

Francis has an interview with a Jamaican food company. "I've seen your face before," says the man. "Something to do with...Wait a minute....it's coming." Francis looks suitably deprecating. "My God," says the interviewer. "Don't say I'm actually talking to the man who introduced microwave popcorn to the UK."

My husband, the icon. When he gets home, we invite the neighbours round to kneel at his feet and take turns touching his suit. Still no bloody job offers, though.

In my latest surge of misplaced energy (I do wonder sometimes if there isn't a little input socket on the National Grid with my name on it) I am about to register Francis for a sponsored bike ride. I did it two years ago and saw it as a mobile coffee morning with hills and bananas. Francis isn't keen, but I think it's probably the only way we're going to be seeing much in the way of endorphins this year, unless the NHS has plans for a happy donor service.

He reacts to the news with typical over-excitement.

"How will I get any sponsors? Nobody at work will be interested in what I'm doing now. I'm long gone. Still," he brightens slightly, "I got another email saying 'we still can't believe you've gone,'"

"Why don't you send one back saying you're still there. And ask for sponsorship while you're at it."

But there's no consoling him. "People are so insincere that I'd rather not talk to anybody."

"Can I have a glass of wine, please?" I say. "And, believe me, I'm very sincere."

Later on, snitch that I am, I recount most of this conversation to his mother. "He's always been a bit like that, ever since he was little," she says. "We'd all be sitting on the beach on a beautiful day and he'd look up at the sky, and say, 'Look, a black cloud. That's the end of the sunshine for the day.' "

Francis takes his bike to be serviced. It comes back daubed with a patch of oil like paint on a sheep that's been tupped, but with no other visible sign of having been tampered with. If it turns out to be pregnant, though, I'll have to eat my words.