One morning, I said to my wife: “That’s it. I want a divorce.”

She said, “Ah, that’s a shame. We’ve been getting on well. We both seem to be prospering. I thought this marriage was good for us.”

She’s a sweet talker…

“I will admit that it does have some benefits,” I said, “but you’ve been infringing my sovereignty for too long. I just want to be my own man for a bit, take back control…make my own decisions.”

“Like what….?” she asked, rather distractedly. If truth be told I don’t think she was paying that much attention to me – she was sorting the kids, organising the packed lunches, doing some work emails on her phone and listening to classical music.

“Well, for one thing, I don’t want these people coming round here every Sunday, in my garden, expecting me to barbeque for them.”

“Which people?” she asked.

“Those people we had here at the weekend. You know the ones I mean. Don’t make me say it.” She didn’t respond, as she was signing a petition against the curtailment of human rights in China, so I had to say it. “Those foreign ones…”

“You mean Lutfa and Amir…? Our neighbours? The people who take our kids to school three times a week? The ones who let us use their holiday home whenever we like…?”

I decided to ignore this oversimplification of the facts as it wasn’t helpful to my Divorce Narrative. She knew as well as I that our garden was overrun with…people…at least one weekend per calendar month.

“And I want to do my own thing,” I said. Nay, demanded.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like…erm…I want to go fishing. In my own pond.”

“You can go fishing whenever you like, darling,” she said, rather too sweetly. I think she was getting a bit exasperated. She put down the Neighbourhood Watch report that she was reading and looked at me as I carried on waving my hands in air with sheer, unbridled feeling.

“Not in peace and quiet I can’t. You told those kids from next door that they could use it. They’re there all the time…fishing my fish. I want my fish back. I bought those fish and I won’t have any Tom, Dick and Harry catching them.”

“They’re just children…”

“Hitler was a child once you know and before you know it he was invading Poland. I’m not having the same thing happening to my back garden.”

My wife just shook her head and sighed. She could see that I had made my mind up. And she knew that when I had made my mind up I had indeed made it up.

In her distress she started to fill out a form on her laptop, with a view to sponsoring a child currently in abject poverty.

I bestrode the metaphorical rostrum:

“Here are my demands. Firstly, I will retain a key to this house and I will come and go as I please. You can visit me at my new house if you like; as long as you give me 48 hours’ notice and you sign the visitors’ book on arrival.

“Secondly, your mother will be required to babysit the children at my new house if I want to go out. It would also be helpful if she could continue to do some household chores whilst she’s waiting around for me to come back from wherever I’ve been. More than likely I will have been out for a drink with that saucy American woman from down the road.

“Thirdly, whilst I appreciate that you might eventually get re-married or cohabit with some Turkish or eastern European fellow, you must under no circumstances, allow him to make use of your private health cover. I should remain on that policy in perpetuity as you know my back could go at any minute.

“And finally, sexual intercourse should continue until at least 2022 and perhaps after that, depending on whether I’ve been able to organise a replacement provider.

“Those are my demands, and I will not compromise on them.”

My wife, who during my impressive opening gambit of negotiation, had been pruning some pot plants with a view to increasing the natural biodiversity in our garden gave me a little smile.

“Well maybe we can discuss that later. Why don’t I help you pack your bags?”