We have a tortoise called Parker. Really, he’s the Daughter’s tortoise, but for various reasons he has been staying here for months. Think it’s easy, do you, looking after a tortoise? Think they just crawl about slowly, eat a few dandelions and are no bother? Wrong. Be warned. A tortoise can be an exhausting and difficult pet – fearless and adventurous, with complex moods and needs, a will of iron, moves like greased lightening and the potential to cause intense anxiety. At least, this is my experience, particularly now that the weather is lovely and warm.

The heat has perked Parker up. He wakes early and wants to get out of his house. At once. Who can blame him? He prefers it outdoors. So he escapes. He can climb on to a wodge of his bedding, push open the roof of his bedroom, fall from a height, land on his back, almost die, struggle to right himself, then batter the French windows until he is allowed into the garden, where he can escape almost any enclosure, climb perilous rocks, come tumbling down, get stuck in plant pots or undergrowth, or think he can swim and stride into the pond.

He is wrecking my career. I cannot work a) if he’s struggling to get out and battering windows or b) if he’s out taking risks and disappearing. Imagine the terror. Is he upside-down? Drowned? Been snatched by a fox? I’m up and down like a yo-yo: 10 minutes at my desk, 10 minutes checking where he is – searching undergrowth, elbow deep in pond mud searching for his lifeless little body. Meanwhile, the dog – assumed to be more troublesome – has his walkies, eats, and snoozes quietly in the heat. No problems. I have trained him to find the tortoise. He can usually sniff him out when rewarded with a biscuit. Which all takes time. Work? What work? This is my life now: dog training, tortoise hunting. “Give him back!” shouted Olga, exasperated. So I did. For a trial weekend. He has settled in with Daughter at once. The ungrateful little wretch, after all I’ve done for him. Could I be missing him? Just a smidgen.