It glugs and almost somersaults out of my hands like a slinkee. I grasp the obscene pink plastic tightly.

At the filling stage, first emptying the air, and holding the neck at right angles to avoid spurting, scalding, volcanic projection of searing liquid. I feel the steam sting my eyes with rubbery hotness.

It’s there in the centre of the bed, radiating like a hot, hidden heart, bringing discomfort and sweat and sleeplessness. She needs it, wants it, but I sweat and fret, throwing up barriers of down to shut out its influence. Sweat sheens my back and drips wetly onto the damp sheets.

Waking up with taste of staleness – “badger breath” – and excessive thirst. The heat has boiled away all hydration overnight. I lie uncomfortably worn out, postponing, before swivelling out and staggering in search of a pint glass of water, and a pee.