My wife is home from India, but the band I’m in is back out on the road: Milton Keynes, Bury, Saltaire. There are many high and lows to being on tour, but the prevailing condition is one of mild carsickness.

I’m sitting in the back of the van with six other band members, taking my turn in one of the rear‑facing seats. The previous day’s cryptic crossword, half-completed, is sliding about on the table between us.

“How many letters again?” I ask, trying to fix my eye on the horizon as the countryside lurches past the windows.

“Nine,” the bass player says, pushing the paper toward me.

I look down briefly. “Isometric,” I say.

“It fits,” the accordion player says. “But why?”

“I don’t do the why,” I say. “I’m here for the broad brush stuff.”

“Are we stopping soon?” the bass player says. “What happened to that idea?”

A few miles on, it becomes imperative that we stop immediately. The driver pulls into a layby on a bend and we all pile out into the drizzle. Our immediate surroundings convey very little information: there are sheep in the distance, and a quantity of litter at our feet. On the road in front of us the word “SLOW” is painted, and also “ARAF”.

I speak to my wife’s voicemail: “We’re back in Wales,” I say, staring up at the grey woollen sky. “I’ll try you later.” A car speeds past, kicking up spray.

“Araf!” the accordion player shouts.

Later, in the bar of the Queen’s Hall in Narberth, I speak to one of the organisers of the evening in the interval between our set and the clog dancing.

“Is this your first time in this part of the world?” she asks.

“Maybe,” I say. “If I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure where I am.”

The next morning, I finally reach my wife.

“How’s it going?” she says.

I find it difficult to encapsulate events since our last conversation: two standing ovations, some clog dancing, many completed crossword puzzles. “Overall,” I say, “a triumph.”

“Where are you now?” she says.

“The M4,” I say. “I’m coming home, baby.”

“How lovely,” she says. “We won’t be here. I’m taking the boys to a film.”

The house is dark when the van drops me off. I take the dogs out and open some old mail. I feel as if I’m in a transitional phase between two worlds, an interval of intolerable loneliness. You should probably turn on some lights, I think.

Eventually, my wife and children come home. I am sent out for supplies: wine, milk, dog food. When I return, my wife is cooking. Then I remember something: I find my iPad and look up a Lancashire radio station. At 8pm I turn off the kitchen radio and turn up the iPad.

“I was listening to that,” my wife says.

“Well, now you can listen to this,” I say.

She listens.

“Why am I interested in crime in Blackburn?” she says.

The news is replaced by music. “Oh Christ,” she says. “Is this you?”

“We recorded the show on Friday,” I say. “I just want to hear a bit.”

“A week away with the band,” she says, “and now we have to listen to the band?”

“Remind me where you’ve just been for two weeks,” I say. “Was it India?”

“It must be great to be you,” my wife says.

“Yes, it is,” I say.

“To be so incredibly amazing,” she says.

“And talented, and fun to be with,” I say. “That’s the feedback I’m getting.”

My voice comes over the radio, and I realise with a shudder that I sound like a terrible dick.

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