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“French fries,” he demanded.

“Chips,” Stewart countered. “We’re in the UK now, young man. Chips.”

“French fries!” my son shouted, a smile on his face.

“You are an alien, aren’t you? I’ll get you alien chips if you’re not careful.”

“What are alien chips?”

“Deep-fried worms,” Stewart boomed as he took the turn into the drive-through.

“You’re disgusting.” My daughter laughed, once again turning around to look at me.

“No. I’m very good at cooking,” Stewart said, like he did this every day. Dealt with unhinged children…and their even more unhinged father.

“Do you cook worms for dinner?”

“I put them in my tea. With two scoops of ants.”

“That sounds very suspicious. Burger or nuggets?”

“Worms!” Marmaduke shouted. Stewart laughed.

“Worms, it is. Do you want crushed beetles on top? Or chopped-up toenails?”

“Stewart!” I had to intervene here, but he just laughed and looked over his shoulder.

Looking at me that way he did. Like he loved me.

“Stewart?” Constance said, then got interrupted as we reached the ordering point, all of us suddenly shouting our orders like the deranged bunch we apparently were.

Normal. It felt so mind-shatteringly normal.

“As I was saying,” Constance continued when we were finally parked up, tucking into our food in an airport car park. There would be spillage in Stewart’s lovely car. “I like this car,” my daughter continued. “It’s very nice.”

“My son-in-law bought it for me. I take good care of it because I could never afford to replace it.”

“I see,” she said, mulling that little titbit of information over. “And you like my dad?”

“Constance!” I snapped. Seriously. Behave.

“What? He keeps looking at you in the rear-view mirror and smiling. He likes you.”

No shame. But then, Stewart was laughing.

“I like your dad, a lot. It’s not hard to. He’s a lovely guy.”

“I think so,” my daughter quipped, watching me. “And do you like Stewart back?”

Less than twenty minutes, my children had been back, and we were already pulling the questions out of thehat with no concern for my pathetic attempts at a slow introduction to a new way of life.

“He’s rather nice too, don’t you think?” I said, trying to steer us into softer words, less blatant truths.

“So you’re going to marry Stewart?” Marmaduke. For heaven’s sake, child!

“No, Marmie.”

“Mommy won’t like it if you call me Marmie.”