It is a typical morning at Dear Towers. I am gazing at my reflection in the oven-door glass, and wondering when it was that I turned into my great-grandmother.
Mr Dear is sitting at the kitchen table, working his way through a mug of coffee and the crossword.
‘Is it just me, or do you think I’m suddenly looking old?’ I said.
‘Glass slipper,’ said Mr D pensively.
We will take the deep, disgruntled sigh for granted, along with the words, ‘Men, honestly!’