TEMPERS are fraying by the time we arrive in Devon for Christmas, due to spending four days on the M4 in a relations-visiting odyssey that concludes in Melksham: a town so miserable that a Netmums post called “Should I move to Melksham?” has just one response: don’t. So when George decides that mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve is the time to visit The Dolphin – the “crèche for husbands”, according to the pub’s amusing sign – I let off steam to my 29-year-old sister in the shampoo aisle in Boots. “You two love each other very much,” says sister three, who is thinking of retraining as an occupational therapist. “I think this is just situational.” “S’pose,” I say, and buy George a thoughtful tin of Man Flu Mints.
