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.

Monday, 4.30pm

A FRIEND waylays me in town.

HOME, 8pm — “Bradley Wiggins is on the Honours list,” my husband informs me as I enter the kitchen.

SATURDAY, 2pm.