Forward planning

Perhaps it's the way I keep forgetting where I live, recently ending up over the road spending three years in the wrong house until evicted for complaining that nobody seemed capable of remembering which brand of conditioner I preferred, but Francis has taken it into his head to start explaining things to me.

"And that's the villa we always stayed in," he said, today, showing me some old photographs. "Every year we'd get there by - "

"- catching the BOAC bus that had the little trailer and went from where they've built the Sainsbury's in the Cromwell Road," I say. "I know, Francis, I know."

"That's all of us, right outside the front door on the first day," he says, a few minutes later. "Dad would always say - "

" ' - room for a litte one in the back?'" I fiinish, for him.

During lunch, he explains where his parents live now, virtually including postcode and directions, then moves on to what a sardine is, and seems on the point of reminding me of the children's names, ages and shoe size when I interrupt him.

"Francis," I say. "Against all the odds, I have succeeded in retaining a few facts about us all, and I intend to hang on to them."

"I'm practising for when you lose your memory," he says, cheerfully. "Since I'm obviously going to be spending half my life telling you who you are, I thought it would be worthwhile practising now. Then it won't seem so odd when it happens."

I can't tell you how delighted I am by his solicitude and forward planning.

"Darling," I say, "Look at this long, pointy, sharp object. It's called a kitchen knife. And if you insist on telling me anything that I haven't specifically asked to have explained to me, I'll be using it. And I'm counting on my memory to tell me exactly where to cut."

Truly, marriage is a wonderful thing, even if, in our case, it's not exactly the meeting of minds because his is right here and mine, I greatly fear, is in Lalaland. Or, possibly, in Terminal 5 at Heathrow, along with 28,000 other old bags.