That is just about to go out of the window, too.
So far this week the husband has been up to a succession of things that would have tried the patience of a saint.
I will draw a veil over the brief trip to Spain, when we didn't take maps (I've got maps on my phone, he said) and then ended up going back to Barcelona airport twice, twice!, because we missed the right turning for the motorway.
But since we have been back he has insisted on catching up on all the tv programmes he missed with the sub titles on and the sound still up so loud you can hear the dialogue word for word upstairs.
He has also disregarded all medical advice about pacing himself, spent more than three hours in the garden (where the grass had not been cut since last autumn), and is now in so much pain with his neck that he can't sleep and is like a bear with a sore head.
Meanwhile, we have invited old friends for supper tonight. We discussed what to give them and agreed on a casserole and a crumble. Simple family fare.
I assumed we would eat informally at the kitchen table - I was prepared to remove what another friend calls the Siege Perilous (the clip on baby seat) and the zoo animal tablecloth much loved by grandchildren, but no.
The lord and master has decreed that we will eat in the dining room. Moreover, he instructs me to put out soup spoons as, alongside his carbonade de boeuf, he will now be making a potage of some sort (he has come back from Sainsburys with celeriac, so that would be my first guess).
He also wants side plates for bread. He has bought cheese and biscuits.
It will be a veritable feast.
Perhaps I read too many Phillipa Gregory novels when we were away, but it feels as though he is turning into Henry VIII.
