My husband fancies himself as a romantic. He likes to remind me that before we met, he was lauded as a ladykiller. He says this with a straight face while reclined on the sofa with his knee rug and the cat. I want to query whether he’s being facetious or ironic, but I hold my tongue, because he’s on a roll. “Empathy,” he announces. “That’s what women want. George Clooney and I know this. A man who listens to a woman is a rare and miraculous thing.”

I stifle a snort but he’s not finished.

“We’re quite alike, you know, George and I.”

“You mean apart from the tummy?”

But he’s not listening. His homily over, he’s re-engrossed in the sports pages.