Every 4-6 weeks, I go to The Big Car Wash on Kirkstall Road. I appreciate this is lazy but, amidst the endless reams of soul-sapping admin and domestic chores that accompany being a 37-year-old, sacrificing hours of my life to hose and hoover our Dacia Sandero is where I draw a line. 

There are few things on earth more horrifying than the back of a family car when you remove the child seats and, as I pulled up and evaluated the filth: crumbs, dry mud, and a McDonald’s fry that could feasibly have been there for a month, I considered whether this was the worst state it has ever been in.

“Please can I get a mini valet?” I asked.

A muscular Eastern European man opened the back door, glanced at the seats, and looked, frankly, appalled.

“You need a full one, boss.”