Only when a relationship has been running for a good few years does a couple settle into that gently contented, bickering familiarity that sees the same old arguments resurfacing on a regular basis.
Frantically trying to behave like grown-ups, the future ex-Mrs ff-C and I have almost learned to avoid the most dangerous topics. For instance, her attitude to a new recipe's list of ingredients being somewhat cavalier, a good deal of scrapping is now side-stepped by the simple expedient of never occupying the kitchen at the same time.
Similarly, a grass cutting rota has become unnecessary since the missus so conveniently demonstrated her complete inability to start the new mower, much as good fortune has blessed me with a lack of the relevant musculature necessary to retrieve dirty clothes from the bedroom floor...
Indeed, aside from the issue of whether the household ranks really need to be further swelled by the inclusion of a dog, pretty much the only bone of contention that remains is that of packing the car.
Now, I might have to admit to being a tad obsessional about car packing, having inherited my father's capacity to be driven quietly yet absolutely insane by 350 miles of something miscellaneous rattling somewhere in the car. Nonetheless, I fail to understand how someone who regularly chastises me for not folding shirts sufficiently tidily into a suitcase can still leave the back of an estate looking as if it has been loaded, from a considerable distance, by a large catapult...
Yes, we've been on 'holiday' in Cornwall again. There's nothing quite like a fortnight huddled against the rain in a holiday cottage to make you wake up one morning and realise that, suddenly, you're simply running a creche with someone you used to go out with. In fact, it was nothing like a fortnight. The rain proved utterly relentless and there are only so many jigsaws a grown man can do, so, smiling for the first time in over a week, we came home early.
Rain aside, the only downside to holiday cottages is that you have to take absolutely everything with you, from books, beach toys and favoured DVDs to a couple of sharp kitchen knives and the Lea and Perrins. But whereas the missus would happily tuck 50 or 60 individual items from the larder willy-nilly among the cases, as if preparing a giant luggage casserole for the oven, I have an aversion to the sound of breaking glass every time I lift the tailgate - especially if it's the Cote du Rhone - so invariably have to take everything out and start again.
Happily, the Mondeo Estate's loadspace is so vast and blissfully flat that, with a bit of head-scratching, it is possible to cram an entire fortnight's luggage on board and still leave enough clear air for a decent view astern.
However, while self-levelling suspension does see to it that the car doesn't subsequently spend the next five hours adopting the attitude of a jet leaving the runway, something strange does happen when you load a Mondeo Estate's even three-quarters full...
Even though I really didn't notice the extra weight overmuch from the driving perspective, and the car appeared to be more or less as level as it would have been empty, I became increasingly baffled by the clearly perceptible vibration of the rear bonnet lip, just above the windscreen wipers. A deal of manful pressing proves this panel to be mighty rigid at this point - positively inflexible actually. So I can only imagine the motorway-speed forces at work powerful enough to set it flapping like bunting in a gale.
Is it that even a slight change in nose attitude elicits a sudden increase in airflow under the bonnet within the engine bay? This seems unlikely. All answers gratefully received...
This thorny little problem aside, the Mondeo estate has proved itself a formidable long-haul weapon. My slight misgivings about the re-installation of the driver's seat aside, it's superbly comfortable and quiet when cruising and, despite not being as high-riding as the Land Rover Discovery it has replaced, itstill manages to afford the children a good enough all-round view out to stave off feelings of claustrophobia or car sickness.
And, of course, it's still good to drive. The constant, politely muted chatter of road-surface information coming through the helm and the seat of the pants, allied to a crisp turn-in and outstanding body control, make for entertaining handling despite the presence of the extra weight in the back.
In the interests of even occasional, en-route silence, I still regret not having specified a rear seat DVD system, but the cat's cradle of wiring procured to run the iPod proved an eminently sensible purchase, and the missus solved the open glovebox conundrum by simply slamming it shut on the offending wire, to no ill effect.
There's nothing quite like a proper journey to highlight storage deficiencies, and, after the Discovery, it must be said that the Mondeo Estate could seriously benefit from a few more handy bins about the cabin. With the glovebox full of CDs, cupholders full of phones and the centre arm rest box full of God knows what, the last place I want to stow the other half of the Fruit and Nut is the door pockets, which cunningly contrive to be too deep for ready retrieval, yet too shallow to do something really useful, like hold a road map.
Come to think of it, when did any of us last drive a car boasting a decent road map pocket? No, the back of the front seat's no good unless you want to simultaneously pull a muscle and crash while retrieving it. Doesn't it just always end up getting quietly trashed, slotted between the passenger seat and the transmission tunnel?
Manufacturers would argue that, armed with satellite navigation, you don't need a road atlas. This is bunk: when it comes to planning a long, we-really-must-do-something-rather-than-just-sit-here exploration of uncharted Cornish territory in the teeming rain, sat nav simply can't cut the mustard.
Come to think of it, after this summer, neither can I.
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This article first appeared on www.channel4.com on 17th October 2008
