I watch a lot of TV. I’ve seen Law & Order approximately one billion times, so I know a thing or two about interrogations. “I’d like to call a lawyer,” I say politely, but firmly, just to show I’m no pushover.

They exchange amused looks, dopey smiles. The fatter one leans forward. “Mrs Patterson. Can I call you Eve?’ I shrug. “You’re not being accused of any crime here. You’re just a witness. We just want to take a statement…” He keeps saying just, it’s starting to get on my nerves. These policemen aren’t as handsome as Jesse L. Martin. What a complete waste of time this is!

Not that I’m looking for a love interest, or anything. I’m married. And my husband is just fine, thank you. He’s tall, he likes to cook and he reads a mean bedtime story. It’s just that, I’m beginning to think I’m not in love with him anymore. There, now I’ve said it. It’s been months. I’ve been hiding that inside me so tightly – a coin inside a fist. I didn’t want to think about it.

That apples never fall far from the tree.