After 10 seconds of me kissing her, she drops the paella pan and it shatters on the kitchen floor

Sorcha says I've lost it. But I tell her I know what I saw. I'm like, "My old pair were getting off with each other, Sorcha. It's disgusting. They're supposed to be divorced. He's supposedly married to someone else."

Sorcha goes, "What I'm saying, Ross, is that you might have, like, misinterpreted it? It might have just been just a kiss, like the way I kiss my dad."

“Believe me, it wasn’t like the way you kiss your dad.”

“Or the way I kiss my grandmother.”

“Babes, I’d be seriously worried if you kissed your grandmother like this. Her mouth was going like a focking trout trying to take a fly.”

“Okay,” she goes, laughing. “Show me.”

I’m like, “Excuse me?”

“Demonstrate it on me.”

“It’s not funny, Sorcha. They’re having an affair, I’m telling you.”

“Show me, Ross. Show me how he kissed her.”

So I go, “Okay, then – if that’s what you want,” and I move in closer to her.

One of the things I really love about myself is how good a kisser I am. It’s a bit like my kicking, I often think. You put the hours into it and you get the results out of it.

I give her a deep, meaningful look for two or three seconds – letting you in on a little trick of the trade there – cock my head to one side, then I move in and throw the lips on her. After 10 seconds of me kissing her, she ends up dropping the paella pan she was holding and it shatters on the kitchen floor. It’s pretty flattering that I can still get a reaction like that out of my wife after all these years of marriage.

I pull away. It’s a good 10 seconds before she can even talk. I’m a genuinely amazing kisser.

“Oh,” she goes, suddenly wiser. “Oh my God.”

I’m there, “See? That’s the point I’ve been trying to make. It was like an actual proper kiss. He couldn’t have made more of a meal of her if he’d stuck her focking head between two pieces of bread.”

She’s like, “Okay, Ross, I get the point.”

Her face is still a bit flushed and that’s not me being bigheaded.

I’m there, “I’m going to confront him. I’m going to do one of those . . . what was that thing that you and your friends used to do when a girl skipped lunch two days in a row?”

She goes, “It’s called an intervention, Ross. And I don’t think you should do one in this case. Your mum and dad are grown-ups.”

"They weren't acting like that. You couldn't have separated them with a tyre iron. He's supposed to be married to Helen, who I actually like?"

She goes, “Ross, it’s really none of your business. You should stay out of it.”

Except I can't stay out of it? The whole thing has, like, upset me too much. When Sorcha goes out to her book club that night with Wolf Hall tucked under her orm ("An important book," is what she said when I asked her. "Challenging, yet at once immense."), I jump in the Lambo and point it in the direction of the old man's gaff.

I don't bother my orse knocking. I actually let myself in, ready to have it out with him. Then, suddenly, I hear his voice coming from his study. I tip down to it and I listen at the door for a minute or so. He's on the phone to Hennessy and I can't believe what I end up hearing.

“I’ve taken her out three times in the past week,” he’s going, “and, well, I’m not going to deny it, Old Bean, it’s pretty clear that the old feelings are still there. And I think it’s fair to say that that goes for both sides. It’s love, Hennessy. There’s no ifs and buts about it. It’s just like it was in the old days. I only have to put my hands on her and the old thrill returns. I don’t wish to sound conceited, but I put her through a serious workout this morning. You should have heard the bloody squeals from her!”

I suddenly burst in the door. "Okay, you're actually disgusting?" I go.

He’s pretty surprised to see me standing there – although shocked is possibly more the word. He’s like, “Ross, I wasn’t expecting you.”

I’m like, “Yeah, no, that much is pretty obvious. That’s why you’re talking like a basic filthbag. Have you no embarrassment?”

He goes, “Embarrassment? Ross, I was just telling your godfather here about my BMW E9 coupé.”

I’m there, “Excuse me?”

“Yes,” he goes. “My very first car. From nineteen-sixty-whatever-it-was.”

“You couldn’t have been talking about a cor.”

“It showed up at an auction last week, Ross. What are the bloody well chances? I picked it up for next to nothing.”

“When I walked in the door, I distinctly heard you say that you were fiddling around under the hood this morning and you were getting most agreeable noises out of it.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I was doing . . . Ross, what is the matter with you?”

“Er, I don’t know. I just presumed you were talking about . . .”

“Talking about what?”

I’m like, “Nothing.”

He goes back to talking to Hennessy. He’s like, “As I was saying, Old Scout, she might have seen better days, but she still goes like the proverbial clappers. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of taking her out for a good, long ride this weekend.”

I back out of the room and out of the house.

Okay, I’m wrong in this case, but I’m not wrong about him and the old dear. What I have to do now is catch them in the basic act.