Two summers ago, when Dennis was a puppy, I went to the vet to get the 793 bits of paper (one-time entry only) now required to take a dog to Europe.

‘That’ll be £265, please,’ the receptionist told me.

‘What?’ I cried. ‘He could go to Eton for less!’

This didn’t seem to elicit much of a response from the receptionist (more of a Harrow woman, perhaps?), so I duly paid up and left.

My friend Jen had whispered the dogsitter’s details as if he were a drug dealer: ‘Dead cheap, just £20 a day’