SUNDAY afternoon, Cork airport. My daughter and I are cutting quite a shape in the departures hall. A recent diagnosis of “bulging lumbar disc” means that I’m doing a syncopated, old-lady shuffle across the foyer, while behind me, my youngest daughter makes the slowest walk across the airport concourse in the collective history of walking and airport concourses.

HOME, 2.30pm. I am upstairs, cleaning the toilet and pondering the gender gap; flushing and brushing, and just… contemplating the differences between women and men as reflected in social, intellectual, and cultural attitudes.

I HAVE been idling in Dunnes Stores for a good 10 minutes, watching a double act — my mother and her old friend Sheila — play out in the pyjama section. We are all wind-blown and purple-cheeked; it is minus two outside and braving the beach has exhausted any desire to ever go out of doors again.

8pm. My husband and I are jogging towards the Eye cinema from Galway city centre, in a last-minute bid to catch a movie. “Something nice and benign,” I gasp, as I’m whisked along.

MOTHER’S DAY morning, and upstairs in bed, maternal bonds are being marked in time-honoured tradition, with phone calls from absent offspring, and tea and toast — with pot of hyacinths — brought to me by my youngest daughter.

HOME, 9am, in the kitchen. It is the last morning of my sister’s visit, and I’m sitting at the table with my nieces and nephew.

HOME, 11.30pm.

In the car, 3pm, windscreen wipers on full speed, destination: “Historic Guesthouse.”

I AM at a dinner party.

AT home, Sunday afternoon. My old friend Sam pulls his car into the drive.