Husband on a Short Fuse reluctantly agrees to spend a long weekend with my parents before school starts again.

“It will be really relaxing,” I persuade him. “They’ll look after the children so that we can sleep late in the morning,” I promise, knowing that might clinch the deal.

We arrive at my family home in the Mendips to discover that my parents have got a couple of friends staying in the house, including one in our bedroom.

My mother explains that she thought it might be fun for us all to sleep in a tent in the garden.

“You mean we’ve got to camp?” asks Husband on a Short Fuse, in shock. “What about the children?”

“It’s a family-size tent and comes with two air mattresses and sleeping bags,” my mother explains. “You’ll have a lovely time. You can go to bed with the sun and get up with the birds.”

We go into the garden in search of the tent and eventually my mother appears holding a small canvas bag.

“It’s in here,” she says brightly. “Now all you’ve got to do is put it up.”

Husband on a Short Fuse goes so red that I think he’s going to explode. He takes the bag on to the lawn and, muttering about systems, insists on lining up every single tent pole and peg to make sure that nothing is missing.

I head for the car, settle in the front seat and impulsively fire off a brief message to Sexy Domesticated Dad, enquiring after his whereabouts and general state of being. “Where are you? How are you?” it reads. Since this involves neither speaking to him nor seeing him, both activities having been outlawed by his wife and my husband, I decide there is no place for guilt.

When I get back, I find Husband on a Short Fuse sitting in the middle of a muddle of tent entrails.

“I can’t do it, Lucy,” he says in defeat.

“He can’t do it,” chorus our three children.

“If London weren’t so far away, I would just drive home right now,” says Husband on a Short Fuse.

My mother comes out and suggests that perhaps we should just blow up the air mattresses and spend the night in the sitting room. A couple of hours later, the children asleep, we retire to our quarters. Every time someone breathes, the air mattress creaks and, while I manage to sedate myself with a bottle of wine, Husband on a Short Fuse decides that the back seat of the car is a better option.

Early the next morning, he summons me to inform me that my phone started beeping in the car at around six in the morning.

“Does the name Sexy Domesticated Dad mean anything to you?” he asks, holding the phone out of my reach.

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