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.