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.

T’S my mother’s birthday. She’s trying on a wig in my brother’s kitchen. Not because she wants to. My brother found the wig in his children’s toy box and wants us all to try it on. My siblings and I know the look in my brother’s eye from childhood; rolling over like a dog is our only option. He’s not made it to CEO for nothing.

AT HOME, four days after finding Trollope’s Chronicles of Barsetshire under the tree, in a box with my name on it.