MIDNIGHT, in bed. I’m random-googling on my laptop, while my husband turns the pages of his book with peevish flicks and martyred air.

MY HUSBAND has thought up a brand new family game for us all to play together on these cold, wintry evenings.

IT IS the morning of our 27th wedding anniversary. We’re exchanging gifts upstairs, in last-minute fashion before my husband leaves for work.

IT’S 8.30pm, and the inaugural visit to our daughter in Barcelona is under way. My husband and I have walked around the city for seven hours straight.

FROM the vantage point of having been married for 27 years, I see marriage, or at least mine, as a big hold-all.

HOME, 6.30pm, and I’m in the downstairs study where the Strictly Come Dancing theme tune is rapping out its staccato beat.

IT’S 9pm. I’m in Sligo, at my sister’s house, where my siblings and their families have gathered for the weekend to celebrate my mother’s birthday.

IT is Friday, 4.30pm. I am at home, up a tree. I’ve been doing more site-maintenance (old farmhouse, three acres: it never ends), what with the vintage shop closing.

I HAD two glasses of Merlot last night — all that my feeble liver can take.

HAVING to travel to the coldest, furthest reach of the house to watch Freeview TV has been one of our oldest family traditions.