‘How many have you done?’ she says. ‘You don’t know, do you?’

Tim Dowling: I’m slowly following in my wife’s 10,000 footsteps

My wife gave the youngest one a pedometer for Christmas, but he refused to use it on the grounds that it was a tracking device designed to monitor his movements on the government’s behalf, or something. A few weeks later, she picked the device up off the table, strapped it to her wrist and synced it to her phone.

Since that time, any day that she doesn’t do 10,000 steps is a pointless day. For the most part, this has no impact on me – she generally gets the bulk of her walking done in the park with the dog in the morning. The dog comes back looking exhausted, but the dog’s problems are not my problems. The cat’s problems are my problems.

“Eleven thousand four hundred,” my wife says, striding into the kitchen one evening.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Miaow!” the cat says, standing in front of the cupboard where the cat food is kept.

“You’ve been fed,” I say.

“Gardening, surprisingly, uses up a lot of steps,” my wife says, pacing in circles round the kitchen table, where the oldest one is staring at his laptop.

“Miaow!” says the cat.

“I know you’ve been fed,” I say, “because it was me that fed you, you idiot.”

“I fed him as well,” the oldest one says.

“Miaow!” the cat says.

“You’ve been fed twice!” I shout. “The room is full of witnesses!”

“How many steps have you done?” my wife says. “You don’t know, do you?”

“My phone counts steps,” I say. “Like everyone’s phone. I just don’t look.”

“How many?” she says, marching in place. I take my phone out of my pocket.

“Two hundred and seven,” I say. “So far.”

On Sunday we have plans to meet friends at an exhibition and then go back to their house for a long lunch, so my wife is obliged to skip her trip to the park. On the train, she fiddles impatiently with the device on her wrist.

Some hours later she suddenly stands up from the lunch table to announce that we’re leaving.

“Now?” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “We’re walking back, and I want to…”

“From here?” I say.

“Yes,” she says.

“It’s seven miles,” I say.

“It’s two miles,” she says. “I need to get my steps in.”

“You walked all round that exhibition,” I say.

“You don’t have to come,” she says. “You can take a taxi if you like.”

We set off under a dark sky that threatens rain. There is another problem: my wife did not drink at lunch, and I did. My legs are heavy, but my mood is dangerously light.

“Look!” I say. “Isn’t that a bus? Oh dear – there it goes.”

“Keep up,” my wife says.

“For 30 years you’ve been telling me I walk too fast,” I say.

“Sometimes you’re too fast,” she says. “Sometimes, like now, when you’re being…”

“When I’m being fun?” I say.

“I wasn’t going to say fun,” she says.

“Shall we sing?” I say. “Do you want to sing?”

“No, thank you,” she says. It is strange to realise that one’s exuberance is, in context, deeply irritating, and also to be too exuberant to care.

“Look!” I say. “Isn’t that another bus?”

After a mile or so, we arrive at a bus stop as a steady rain begins to fall.

“As much as I’ve loved this time together so far,” I say.

“Fine,” my wife says. “We’ll take the bus.”

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We board the next bus. A hundred metres on, it gets stuck in traffic at some temporary lights. We get off again.

“Just up here, then we cut across the park,” my wife says.

“It’s not a race, though,” I say.

“Why, are you tired?” she says.

“Not at all,” I say. “But my hiccups are coming back.”

By the time we are greeted at the front door by the dog and the cat, I am all out of fun.

“Miaow!” the cat says.

“Fine,” I say, walking back to the kitchen. “Follow me, jerk.” The cat follows. As I fill its bowl I slide my phone out of my pocket and glance at the screen. It says I’ve done 9,543 steps. The oldest one walks in.

“I fed the cat,” he says.