So. We are finally en route to somewhere she thinks may be nearby somewhere she may have been to before. And besides, her deceased husband is our guide. Excellent. We get onto the bridge. She starts breathing a little too loud, assisting my driving by vocalising that there is “a car beside me”; “an odd looking driver”; “a jeep 100 yards away that might be thinking about putting on his breaks”. Apparently, on this sweltering day I must also close the sun roof as it creates a whistling noise that makes it difficult for her to think. As far as I can tell, her concentration is focused solely on her next plentyoffish.com date, not me, and thus I leave it open and lower the windows.

This, she believes, is also the perfect opportunity to shout at me that she is an organ donor and if “anything goes wrong”(??) I should make sure the relevant persons are aware. But she also wishes she had married mister XXX (an online random) to ensure he had her social security. I frown. And I continue to drive perfectly well. Assuming she shall direct me as promised.

Half an hour later, in which time I have learned of her 7 potential male “hook ups”, varying from 50 (“too young Lucy, but maybe I can fix him up”) and 80 (“I’m not going to spend my remaining life changing some old guys nappies”), and I interrupt her rampancy to question when we should possibly get off the freeway. Turns out she forgot to direct me and we have driven a third of the way to LA.

I know I am frowning. She’s giggling. And so then do I. We pull off the big (wrong) road and pull over at the next place to reasonably stop to reconfigure. And then, from nowhere, she finds the address. It’s approximately 10 minutes, and an easy drive from where we live. I want to scowl, but she’s laughing so much, I give in to my own bodies need to chuckle. I try and pull a cross face, but she’s got me…

40 minutes later we arrive at her desired destination. I spend ages circling the car waiting for her to pick up (legal), and I am assuming, happy pills, female Viagra? - I just know she’s chatting up and providing “life assuring” advice to randoms. I go to fill up the car with petrol and too many minutes later, she’s ready. For home. Or so I thought. Apparently we absolutely must go and visit the new retirement home (I’m not allowed to call it such; it’s “Paradise Village”). I want to know where she’s moving to and apparently it’s close by. I breathe deeply. Put the ‘Drive’ soundtrack on the stereo, text my friends to tell them I may (almost definitely) be late for drinks, and prepare for the next nunism…