We’re driving through Longleat Safari Park. In front, a fat family are rapping on the windows, trying to wake the lions. A man behind is beeping. I lose it. I swear, with some commitment. (I say: “F***ing come past, you c***.”) By the rules of our marriage, this is Categorically Unacceptable.

I instantly see my mistake. I retreat to my snail shell.

Then my wife says: “I’m not going to let that go.” I should have anticipated this. (The Bill of Women’s Rights states: “When an infringement occurs, the man must immediately be challenged. Ideally, he must give a written affidavit, in which he vows to change.”)

“I won’t let you turn into a ranting old man,” she begins. (The implication is that, were she not to act now, I would immediately turn into a cross pensioner, shouting abuse at the television.) She begins to itemise my faults. We’ve been together for nine years. You’d have thought we’d have listed them all by now, but it turns out there are several we haven’t covered.

“I’m feeling stressed,” I say. “Could you give me a few moments?”

“Why are you stressed?”

Now I lose it again. “I’m stressed because we’ve just paid 38 quid to get in here. We queued for an hour. Now we’re 48 minutes late for Jane.” (Jane is in the rhino enclosure. She has just sent her fourth text.) “We’re trapped in a mad schedule about which I was not consulted.” (We’ve already visited Liv’s gran this morning.) “And I’m stressed because I’m surrounded by man-eating animals, and I’m stuck in a f***ing traffic jam. And now you’re attacking me. I wasn’t swearing at you. I was swearing at the bald f***er beeping in the stupid f***ing SUV.”

Though factually correct, this plea does not help. A full argument occurs. We behave like government ministries. Seeing that a Bad News Day has arrived, we release all toxic material. Christmas is discussed. Money is mentioned. (I’m least proud of saying: “If you’d care to look at my accounts. . .”) I’m still furious when we meet Jane.

Later I sit in her fragrant garden, and Jane brings out some fresh juice. She is eight months pregnant, but still hosting sweetly. The kids are making a woodlice enclosure. I’m reading the Sunday papers. There’s a list of Hot Things to Do This Summer. All of them promise fun; all require cash and car journeys. Longleat is a top suggestion.

I take out a biro and I scrawl on the paper: “Activities are for morons too stupid to have fun at home.” I’m being spoilt, selfish, immature; I also feel I’m making progress.

I show the paper to Liv. To her credit, she doesn’t point out I’ve written on Jane’s paper. She smirks. She doesn’t criticise. That's all I ever wanted.

Dad Rules is published by Fig Tree (£14.99)

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