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.

LAST WEEK, in a fascinating experiment, a psychologist assembled 59 volunteers — all of them mothers — in a room. He settled each into an armchair with a Santa hat, mince pie and four glasses of sherry, for which, he noted afterwards, they seemed inordinately grateful.

NATASHA GALSTAUN, a 43-year-old former interior designer turned stay-at-home mum, stated in a weekend broadsheet recently that, “running a home is just like running a multi-national”.

AT HOME, 8pm, and I am sitting by the fire when the land-line rings.

IT’S 11pm and I am in bed, specs on, book in hand.

SATURDAY NIGHT, and I’m on the sofa, whiling away the evening with a book, jar of lime pickle, lump of cheddar and my own company.

AS WELL as being the most ear-pricking word I’ve ever heard, the Swedish word “Fartlek”.

I’M WALKING along a Cornish cliff-path. My brother, whose idea this was, is striding on legs as strong as Scottish cabers, half a field ahead.

SUNDAY, 10.30am. I’m standing in a café doorway, looking for my husband and his cycling companion.