Mike’s up before me. This doesn’t usually bode well. I check my phone. It’s precisely one minute until my alarm. That’s good. Bonus points for switching it off before it buzzes.

The children won’t be up for another twenty minutes. I say ‘children,’ but they’re practically adults. I shudder. Adulthood means uncertainty and danger. I ensure my slippers are perfectly aligned before stepping into them, then take my morning tablets in the correct order and rhythm. It involves popping the foils and swallowing each in turn, to the beat of ‘Another One Bites The Dust.’ My stomach stops churning.