For the past ten or so years, Caroline has taken herself off to Barbados for two weeks every winter, leaving her long-suffering husband to hold the fort. To be fair, it’s a freebie, so she can hardly be blamed. Her best friend, Bridie, is a tennis instructor and in return for giving lessons to the guests at a five-star hotel for a couple of weeks, not only does Bridie get free room and board but she gets to bring a plus one. All Caroline has to do is make up the numbers in the occasional game of mixed doubles.

That I haven’t collapsed under the strain and hired a cook or a housekeeper has impressed my mother-
in-law

This year, though, is different. Caroline now has a part-time job in travel PR and her company has just picked up a new client with several hotels in Barbados. That means she’s staying on for an extra five days for ‘work-related’ reasons. In effect, Muggins here has to play the part of a single dad, looking after two teenage boys and a dog, for the best part of three weeks. This is in addition to running three different companies, continuing to write articles and appear on GB News, recording a weekly podcast and overseeing major building works at our house.

It’s having to get up at 7.45 a.m. every day to get the boys ready for school that’s killing me. The website I run produces a round-up of the day’s news that arrives in the inboxes of our 19,000 subscribers at 4 a.m. every day, and even though I employ someone to do this, I like to read it through before it goes out. That means I’m lucky to get to bed before 1.30 a.m., leaving me with about five hours’ sleep. I was able to cope pretty well for the first week, but the cumulative impact of sleep deprivation takes its toll.

For the first time since the children were tiny and I was responsible for getting them back down if they woke during the night, I have begun to crave sleep, like a man crawling across the desert desperate for water. On the few nights I have been able to get everything done by 1 a.m., leaving me able to get six-and-a-half hours of uninterrupted shuteye, I feel an immense sense of satisfaction.

There are the weekends, of course, but the dog is scarcely less needy than my sons. If Mali hasn’t been fed by 8 a.m., she jumps on the bed and stands inches from my face, staring at me intensely until I open my eyes. She then starts prodding me with her paw, as if to say: ‘Come on, then, time for breakfast!’

I cannot feed her and go back to bed, because she has to be walked immediately afterwards or there’s a risk she’ll do her business in the sitting room, something that’s happened twice since Caroline’s been away. So every morning I find myself out in the local neighbourhood, being dragged this way and that by Mali, one minute straining at the leash to go and greet another dog, the next stopping dead so she can sniff a lamppost or a flower bed. For a dog that’s barely any bigger than a guinea pig, she’s remarkably strong.

There are some positives. For one thing, I’ve had no difficulty sticking to my alcohol limit of two bottles a week. If I drank any more, I couldn’t cope. I’ve also become much better organised. In the normal course of events I can be quite forgetful, particularly when it comes to domestic chores. I’ll forget to go to the dry cleaners or buy loo paper.

Not any more. With no one to share any of these responsibilities, I’ve become terrifyingly efficient – a cross between a middle-aged dad and the Terminator (Homer Schwarzenegger). I move through the kitchen in a blur of motion, feeding the dog, emptying the dishwasher and cooking the supper all at the same time.

But the best thing is earning brownie points with Rosie, my mother-in-law. She has had us over for lunch for the past two Sundays and on both occasions has called Caroline afterwards to tell her how well I’m coping. The fact that I haven’t collapsed under the strain and hired a cook and a housekeeper has impressed her, so low are her expectations. ‘Give it one more week,’ I told her last Sunday. Caroline is due back on Friday and if her flight is delayed all bets are off.

I’m going to get my revenge in June, when I’m planning a four-week trip to Australia and New Zealand. It’s vaguely work-related, but I’m building in plenty of tourist excursions, such as a Lord of the Rings hiking trip. I calculate it’s such a long way to go, I might as well stay for a month and do a bit of sightseeing. I’m hoping to cap it off with a keynote speech at a conference being organised by Jordan Peterson in Sydney. It’ll beat following Mali around with a little plastic bag, waiting to pick up her poo./>