My goodness. Three weeks ago, I said marriage is a game of chess, in which both parties compete to win free time. I received loads of response. Thursday, 4pm, I print out my e-mails and sit in the kitchen reading them. Richard, from Eastleigh, writes: "Marriage is like a game of football. The winning side is always the one with the most money."
Sally, from Cardiff, writes: "Isn't it more like the Boat Race? In theory, there are only two sides in it, but you never know what's happening under the water." My favourite message is from my own dad, in Shrewsbury. Big Tony weighs in with: "Marriage is more like the battle of Verdun. It's one long, bloody battle of attrition, in which both sides become tragically entrenched in their positions."
Liv appears. "What do women actually want?" I ask.
She's about to answer, but my five-year-old daughter arrives. "Daddy," she announces, "you know worms can still live if you cut a bit off? Well, this morning . . . " I'm hooked by this worm-chopping story. Did she dice a worm into segments?
Then her little sister comes in. "Daddy, you're scared of ghosts, aren't you? If you see a ghost, you must find a mum - your mum or our mum or any mum - and . . ." Now I want to hear about this new antighost technique. But someone else starts talking. We've got this builder called Marek, who's always at our house. He's eating a bowl of cereal on the sofa. He starts reading out a letter he's writing to British Waterways.
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Suddenly, everyone is talking at once. The dog is stalking me, wanting food. My head is a radio jammed between channels. My head is a skip outside a house. Everyone is dumping in rubbish. I'm feeling desperate.
"Andrew," my wife says. "I'll answer your question. Come out to the tent."
We crawl into the tent in the garden. I look at her expectantly. Her pregnant breasts have grown again.
"Let's just say nothing," she says. I smile. I feel understood. I calculate how long we'll have in the tent before someone comes in and starts talking. I reckon we have about five minutes. That should be enough time. I touch her big stomach. A voice starts up in my head - the malicious one that says the wrong thing in every situation. "It's like your dad's beer belly. You're about to have sex with your dad."
I block it out. I kiss my wife. For five minutes, we drift together into a peaceful world of breath and hair and garden smells. It's beautiful. I realise marriage is a game of poker - and the best tactic is often just to say nothing.