SUNDAY. 1.30am.

MONDAY, 6.40pm, day two of my daughter’s hospital admission.

A DIAGNOSIS of a long-term medical condition in a child will bring on a major upheaval in the lives of the whole family involved.

WE ARE driving to Páirc Uí Rinn to see a lad we know play in a Cork under-21’s football final.

IT’S 10.50am, and I’m driving into town to say goodbye to my daughter, who is flying to Barcelona for an Erasmus year this afternoon.

THERE are times when the dramatic arc of a story needs more than words to bring it to life; times when it would be easier to draw the story in a multi-panel cartoon strip.

IT’S 11 pm, and my husband and I are in bed.

WE’RE driving to Dublin Airport, and I have launched a private campaign not to respond with alarm to any statement beginning with oh my God I forgot, when uttered in connection to passports, keys, tickets, wallets, or anything else crucial to safe passage.

I AM cheering up a lesbian on a sofa, in London; a “washed-up old lezzer”, as my sister describes herself, now that she is single again at 45.

HOME, 11.45 pm.