It is 8am on a Friday and I am walking around Bury, Greater Manchester, looking for toothpaste. The immediate area is unpromising: an overpass in one direction, an underpass in the other, and no shops in sight.
My phone dings in my pocket. It’s a text from my wife that reads, “In case you were feeling guilty”, and is accompanied by a photo of a brand-new hairbrush. Yes, I packed our only hairbrush, forcing her to buy another, and no, I don’t feel guilty. The previous day I had looked at my hair in the mirror and decided mine was the greater need. She’s lucky I didn’t take the toothpaste; it had certainly been my intention.
