Take last year, when we managed to snatch our first proper holiday alone in over 20 years of child-rearing. After checking into the glorious Eagles Palace in Halkidiki, Greece, I headed for the hotel’s private beach. Stretching out on a soft lounger, I felt boneless with relaxation. And Martin? Well, despite the punishing heat, he went off to secure a rental bike.

And though I had a chilled drink, absorbing book and dazzling scenery for company, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed that his first thoughts had turned to cycle rides rather than spending time with me. But I admit, it’s not only time apart that’s driven a wedge between me and his bike – sometimes it’s pure infuriation.

His cycling fix has repeatedly made him – and therefore us – late for functions and dinner parties, not to mention the damp lycra that has colonised our bedroom. On one occasion, we booked flights to London from Manchester, where we live, for a wedding, but Martin insisted on doing a charity cycle ride in the morning and rocked up to the airport check-in with five minutes to go, still in his cycling gear. I’m yet to recover from the stress.