We’re off to see a marriage counselor at eight o’clock on Valentine’s evening, with a three-month-old son who must come too because he’s still being breastfed. It’s a new low. Something almost too tragic to be an Eastenders plot. But it is happening to me. Well, to us.
Sion starts crying.
“He needs feeding” Carlie says.
I look up the High Street for somewhere still open. Burger King.
She stares at me.
“If you’re seriously suggesting I breastfeed my son in Burger King before we do this, I’ll leave you now and we can save £50”.
It is fair enough.