There is a mystery package leaning against the front door, addressed to my wife. I take it inside and present it to her. She stares at it for a long time, as if trying to see through the packaging.

“It might be your new hammock,” she says finally. “Happy birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday,” I say.

The old hammock disintegrated last summer. The replacement I ordered did not fit the stand, despite a lot of research and measuring. This one, of course, fits perfectly.

“And it’s better than yours,” my wife says.

“We’ll see,” I say, climbing into the hammock. The front door opens and the oldest one walks in, freshly returned from his holiday.

“Hello!” he calls, stepping into the garden just as the hammock stand flips up on its end, somersaulting me backwards on to the ground.

“Ow,” I say, rubbing my head.

“What’s happening?” he says.

“Your father’s had an accident, I’m afraid,” my wife says.

A week later, the middle one is swinging gently in the new hammock, while my wife lies on a lawn chair and I sit in a deckchair, having just spent an hour trying to remember how to fold it into a chair shape. The dog comes out, sneezes and tips over.

“Oh dear,” my wife says. “She’s getting old.”

The oldest one and his girlfriend arrive. As they step into the garden the folding chair I’m sitting in suddenly collapses. Everyone laughs.

“He did this the last time I was here,” says the oldest one.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say, lying on the grass surrounded by chair parts. “It’s a structural fault.”

I find two sturdy chairs for myself and the oldest one’s girlfriend, and then reassemble the broken deckchair for the oldest one.

“It’s safe as long as you don’t move,” I say. He perches, gingerly.

It’s the warmest day of the year so far, and the assembled English people last about 20 minutes outside. I soon find myself alone in the garden, sitting in the afternoon sun while the dog sleeps under the hammock.

Eventually I retreat to the cool of the kitchen, where everyone is gathered.

“Can’t hear, can’t see,” my wife says. “Falls over all the time, pees everywhere …”

“Who are we talking about?” I say, a defensive eyebrow raised.

“The dog,” says the oldest.

“She’s exiting through the gift shop, if you know what I mean,” my wife says.

“Will you get another dog?” says the oldest one’s girlfriend.

“Don’t think I haven’t been looking,” my wife says. “There’s nothing out there.”

“You’re saying there are no dogs available in this country,” the middle one says.

“You look,” my wife says. Three separate devices are immediately activated to search dog adoption websites. From then on the conversation adheres to a consistent rhythm.

“Look at Stitch!” says the middle one, holding up his phone.

“Look at Kylie!” says the oldest one. “A three-year-old staffie.”

“Don’t like the colour,” my wife says.

The dog staggers into the room and sneezes, its legs shooting out from under it like a collapsing card table.

“Oh dear,” my wife says.

“Look at Shelby,” I say. “A chihuahua with skin problems.”

“No,” my wife says. The dog decides to fall asleep where it is, on the floor by the garden door.

“Look at Barnaby,” says the middle one. “A lurcher the size of a pony.”

“Look at Kevin,” says the oldest one, spinning a laptop round.

“No XL Bullies,” my wife says.

“Kevin is not an XL Bully,” says the oldest one. “He’s a gentle boy with a sensitive side.”

“Look at Pickles,” says the middle one. “Look at Vinny.”

“No and no,” my wife says. “I’ll find what I’m looking for.”

“Meanwhile,” I say, pointing to the floor, “this dog is still alive.” I look to where my finger is pointing and think: “Or maybe not”. The dog is lying there completely still. I watch for breathing, but I don’t see any.

“Look at Geezer,” says the middle one. “Look at Squeak.”

I stand and walk casually over to where the dog is lying, all the while scrutinising its belly for movement. There is none.

As I approach, a cold shudder runs through my frame. I prod the dog in the ribs. She twitches, looks up at me, thumps her tail on the floor and yawns.

“I saw that,” my wife says.

“Just checking,” I say.

“Look at Lucky!” says the middle one.