It’s 8pm. The kids are in bed. I’m lounging on the sofa, reading a book about chess. I realise that marriage is a game in which the two parents compete for free time. I hear Liv’s keys in the door. I dash over and start washing up. This is tactic one: never be caught doing nothing.

She sighs. Says: “Hello. You okay?”

“Yup. Bit tired.”

This is an exchange of pawns. Both parents plead tiredness. They’re indicating they may be physically incapable of more childcare. A good opening position. “What are we doing tonight?” She’s bringing out a knight. Probing.

I look in my mental diary. It’s empty apart from, Thursday: find worming tablets. “I’d like to see Gary,” I say. I’m advancing a bishop.

She frowns. Technically, it’s not illegal for a dad to go out on his own, but she’ll do everything to stop it. “Oh,” she says. “I thought we could have a quiet night in.” She’s using standard blocking technique. She’s saying: “If I can’t go out, you can’t either.”

“Okay. By the way, I’m out tomorrow.” I’m playing confidently. Bringing my queen to the middle of the board.

She looks horrified.

“Tomorrow is my mum’s birthday. Have you forgotten?” She takes my bishop with her knight.

“I’ve got a gig tomorrow.”

I’ve taken her knight. This is a strong move. Rules state that both parties can always go out for a professional engagement.

“How much are you going to be earning?” She’s pinning my queen. It’s a vicious counterattack.

“Forty quid.” I’m blocking with a pawn – a terrible move.

“I can’t cancel my mum’s birthday so you can earn 40 quid. When did you accept this?” The bitch is putting me in check. She’s suggesting the gig isn’t important. She’s hinting my professional life isn’t important. She’s moving in ruthlessly to achieve her objective: she wants us to attend her mother’s dinner.

“They called me this morning.” This is another hopeless move. We both know I should have checked the calendar.

“Call back and cancel.” She’s taken my queen.

“Okay. Gary asked if I want to go to a festival this weekend. He’s got a spare ticket.”

I’ve reintroduced the queen. But it can immediately be recaptured. This is desperate. She is never going to let me go to a festival. I’ll return hung-over, tetchy and incapable of childcare. I don’t know why I mentioned it. But then . . .

“Great! Sounds like fun.”

This is unprecedented. She’s let the queen go. What’s going on? “Oh. Good. I’ll go and turn out the light out.” I move the queen out of trouble.

“By the way, I was thinking about Christmas. I want to spend it with my mum, and she’s booked us a rental cottage nearby. I’ve sent her a deposit.”

I look at her, stunned. She’s lunged forward and put me in checkmate. She’s gained Christmas, the ultimate prize. I’m married to Garry Kasparov.

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