My existential crisis was straight out the terrible twos’ playbook

Early on St Valentines Day I walked down to the car park where the raindrops were knocking off the young almond blossom petals. The slow-dropping rain was refreshing after the January drought. In the car park the red car was shining wet instead of furry with dust.

I drove for 20 minutes on a winding road through low hills, intensively cultivated since the days of Roger the Norman, but abandoned since the Grande Guerre. My destination was a commercial laboratory in the nearest town for a pre-scan blood test. On the journey I went over in my mind what Catriona had said to me the night before.

Earlier in the week it was my birthday. I’ve never been one for celebrating birthdays. A kipper for breakfast and I’m happy. A fuss embarrasses me. But Catriona is a great one for celebrating birthdays, other people’s as well as her own. She wanted to mark my 65th with a lunch. I said I couldn’t face it. But come the day the refusal felt churlish and I relented. The neighbours, alerted and on their starting blocks, came up for a glass of champagne and a slice of homemade pizza. I put on a clean shirt and enjoyed it.

A few days later Catriona arranged another little birthday celebration, in the evening, at Professor Brian Cox’s house, with the foreign correspondent there, for which she had made a curry. There was absolutely nothing not to like. Owing to Covid restrictions we hadn’t seen the Cox family since last October. We hadn’t seen the foreign correspondent and his wife since Christmas. Catriona’s curries are out of this world. The keynote of any gathering involving Catriona, Mr and Mrs Foreign Correspondent and the Coxes is knocking back the grog and laughing.