For as long as I can remember I’ve had a phobia about buttons. The sort you wear on your clothing. I used to keep it secret because, frankly, I was embarrassed about it. After all, I’m a big tuff bloke. But now the truth can be told.

Apparently it’s called koumpounophobia and I am amazed at the number of people who share it. I used to believe I was the only one, and that it was caused by something I don’t remember, but which my parents told me about. When I was very little I choked on a button and was dangled upside down in order for it to be ejected. This, I thought, was the start. But button-related traumas can’t have happened to the entire army of us zip and velcro-wearing co-sufferers, so I’m at a loss.

Press-studs, poppers (no, not the drug kind) zips and so on are fine. Also, the metal stud above the zip on jeans is OK. Not, though, the smaller metal studs which make up a button fly. Ugh.

My phobia isn’t extreme, and in the past I’ve been forced to wear proper shirts and stuff for weddings, but I’ve always been on edge, even though I will do it. But knowing there was a button against my skin would drive me insane. And buttons on duvets. That, I’m afraid, is the devil’s work.

There. If my guess is correct, this’ll get people having a look at my blog. If you’re reading this, and you’re not me, please let me know.

Mrs Rabbit is off to Cornwall for most of next week. I’ll be alone in the house each night and, like a teenager, I look forward to staying up too late, drinking too much and watching unsuitable stuff on TV.

But unlike a teenager, I’ll be drinking red wine almost exclusively, and the unsuitable stuff I’ll be watching will be documentaries on such things as the aeroplanes, the renaissance and ghosts.

I’m also trying to write a sitcom at the moment, and knowing I can stay up, tapping at my laptop as late as I want is such a luxury. But I know what’s going to happen. The night my wife departs, I’ll get too drunk, stay up too late and expect something exciting to happen and it won’t.

The rest of the week I’ll just do what I normally do, but alone, feeling slightly down about it.

But I will sleep on her side of the bed, for the sake of novelty.

She doesn’t go until Sunday and I’m already missing her.