“What on earth were you thinking?” I am looking at my husband’s Instagram feed, where a picture of me shivering in a wetsuit stares back at me: hair flat against my face, make-up free, bum blocking the beach. “I was thinking you looked really happy,” he says, wounded. As I try to explain why I’m reacting like a celebrity who has just spotted a paparazzo up a tree, how this photo amounts to career suicide, even defamation, I realise that his is, of course, the saner voice. But these days mine is the normal voice. telegraph
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