"My mother’s opinions do seem susceptible to the cold"

CORK airport, 2.30pm, and, as expected, the rain has travelled for hundreds of miles against prevailing winds especially to decant itself on top of my mother when she disembarks the plane.

In the car, my mum phones my sister from her mobile, to inform her of her safe arrival.

“Well, I’m here in St Tropez,” she says, looking out of the window and up at the vengeful sky. “I’m in the car now and we’re heading home.