A Fenland holiday this year, much of it beyond the reach of mobile masts. Big skies, plenty of sunshine and lots of rain; and blessedly little television. Grenouille, normally a bit of a square-eyes, is enthusiastic about the Monopoly set provided in the accommodation but requires to be coaxed to participate in more strenuous activities. On the day we head for Cambridge, the bribe is a detour via Newmarket to see if we can see some horses, animals that G particularly admires.

“Horses have right of way in Newmarket,” explains G’s Papa. “There are special horse-paths and horse-crossings. Cars have to stop to let them across the road first.”

G is wide-eyed and incredulous. “Really?”

“Really truly,” I say, enthusiastically, “and they will be especially nice horses. Racehorses! They’re like, horses with go-faster stripes.”

Grenouille’s expression curdles to nice-try-but-you-can’t-fool-me. “Mum! That’s zebras!”

I really should know better by now, shouldn’t I?

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