I wake on Saturday morning brimming with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

“Morning,” I say when my wife’s eyes open. “What are we doing today?”

“What do you mean, what are we doing?” she says.

“Well,” I say. “A brand new day is…”

“Do you expect me to plan your whole fucking life for you?” she says. I realise what I’m feeling is not enthusiasm at all, but a kind of pre-hangover giddiness. If I don’t feel terrible, it’s only because I haven’t sat up yet…

“I was just…” I say.

“I could ask you, what are we doing today?” she says. I think about this for a moment. Then I take my phone from the bedside table.

“We could see this,” I say, holding the screen to her nose.

“What’s this?” she says.

“It’s the trailer for a movie called Sausage Party,” I say.

“Is this a cartoon?” she says. “You can’t show me a cartoon.”

Two minutes later, my wife’s eyes are shining in the curtained half-light.

“That is literally the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says, gripping my arm.

“So there’s one option,” I say.

She gets out of bed and leaves the room. I sit up, and am rewarded with the headache I deserve. After a few minutes my wife returns, dressed.

“The online booking is down,” she says. “We’ll have to go to the cinema early, then have lunch.”

“What did we do before online?” I say. “Didn’t we ring or something?” My wife has already left the room. I hear her banging on the children’s doors.

“Wake up!” she shouts. “We’re all going to the cinema!”

That afternoon my wife’s phone rings as we exit the cinema car park.

“We’ve just been to a film called Sausage Factory,” she says.

“Sausage Party,” the middle one says from the back.

“It’s basically about food having sex,” my wife says. “You must see it.”

“And it was my idea,” I say.

“No, you should definitely bring your adult children with you,” she says.

At dusk my wife finds me in the sitting room, feeling frail. “I’m going to cook,” she says. “I’ve made you a shopping list.”

“Can you not see I’m watching a documentary about the presidential election of 1828?” I say.

“If you don’t go now, I’ll change my mind,” she says. “Martin Van who?”

“Van Buren,” I say. “He succeeded Andrew Jackson.”

“Literally never heard of him,” she says.

“Have you heard of Zachary Taylor?” I say.

“No,” she says.

“Millard Fillmore?” I say.

“No.”

“Chester Arthur?” I say.

“This isn’t fun for me,” she says.

In the supermarket queue, I’m sorely tempted to send my wife a text saying, “Rutherford B Hayes?” But then I get another idea.

“It’s telly supper,” my wife tells the middle one. “Your father’s picked another film for us to watch.”

“Uh-oh,” he says.

“He says it’s literally the funniest film ever,” she says.

“I didn’t say literally,” I say.

My wife corrals the children into the sitting room against their will.

“This was made in 1985,” I say. “Before the internet.” I press play. Over the next quarter of an hour, an unbearable silence blossoms.

“When does it get funny?” my wife says.

“This is still the set-up,” I say, knowing full well comedies don’t normally leave 15 minutes before the first joke. The younger two vanish. The oldest one offers to clear the plates, and never returns. The film is everything I remember, except funny.

“I can see what you mean,” my wife says. “But I’m going to read my book.”

I watch the rest alone, as a sort of punishment.