My husband has just shouted, “SHIT,” and disappeared round the corner to find Wi-Fi

9am, and I am standing outside Vanessa’s flat in Brixton, checking my phone for messages left on the “Siblings” Whatsapp group that my London sister created in order to organise my mother’s 80th birthday party.

Celebrations are to be held in Cornwall at 2pm tomorrow. So right now, on “Siblings,” it’s all about “E.T.A’s”. I’m unfamiliar with this acronym but sense it might be wise not to send a Whatsapp asking for clarification.

Three messages regarding E.T.A’s come in from my youngest brother, my oldest sister and my middle sister, who are travelling from Geneva, Devon and London respectively. Between them they number 15, including offspring. I discover they are already in transit.

They report that their transit is smooth. Their transit is on time. Mainly, I suspect, because their transit didn’t come cheap.

This just leaves the Sligo troops - my oldest brother and youngest sister - and me. Between us, we number 18.

There are no Whatsapps from the Irish contingent.

“When are you lot from the Wild West arriving in Cornwall?” my London sister messages from (I later find out) the Great Western Railways Executive Lounge.

I stare at my inbox. It’s like looking for clues on a crossword but suddenly, I’ve got it.

It’s nice to be able to join in at last; I message my expected time of arrival: “Our E.T.A is 8pm.” I look at my phone. Still nothing from the Irish contingent.

This means three things: they are already in transit. Transit is not smooth. And transit came late because transit came cheap. Transit, in other words, is a whirling vortex. My heart sinks: it seems once more that Ireland’s reputation is on the line.

9.15. Outside Vanessa’s flat, I consider the fact that all travel arrangements from this point onwards have been made by my husband and son.

9.20. I have not considered this fact until now. Not its implications, I haven’t.

Now might be a good time to seek assurance from my husband that there are going to be no swirling vortices of our own making today but my husband is trying to find signal on his phone so that he might contact my son.

9.25. Now is not a good time to seek assurance; my husband has just shouted, “SHIT,” and disappeared round the corner to find Wi-Fi.

I find a low wall on which to sit. I close my eyes.

“Mum,” my daughter says, “what are you doing?”

“I’m breathing in for four, out for seven,” I say, “try it, it really slows your system down.” 9.36. My husband reappears. He finds my daughter and I sitting on a low wall.

“It actually works,” my daughter says, exhaling slowly, “I feel really relaxed.” 9.40.

“No time for that,” my husband says, “there’s been a complete change of plan. We’ve got to leg it to Tulse Hill. Hup, hup, hup.”

11am. My London sister calls me. She has booked a table in the Pullman’s lounge on Great Western Railway for lunch.

She’s excited by the menu: “slow braised Somerset pork belly, reared fillet steak and many more options, all with carefully selected wines and a choice of dessert or West Country cheeses to finish.”

It has had really good reviews, she says.

“So where are you?” she wants to know.

“Sitting in a café,” I say, “address unknown,” and pass the phone to my husband. I think it’s all over for Ireland’s reputation.

“We’re in a café called Creative Aroma,” he says.

“Where’s that?” she asks.

“Norwood I think,” he says, “we went to the wrong station but missed the train anyway, thank god or **** knows where we’d have ended up, so now we’re about to catch the 201 bus.” “And the 201 is taking you where?” she asks.

“Back to Vanessa’s flat,” he says, “so strictly speaking, we haven’t set off yet.”

Yes, all over for us. It is up to the rest of the Sligo troops now.

9pm. Cornwall. We are all assembled in my mother’s house apart from my Sligo sister’s family, which has gone missing. No-one yet knows where.

“Flight was probably delayed in Knock,” my brother from Sligo says.

“Or maybe they had trouble with a sheep in a birthing harness?” my Devon sister says.

“Or one of the donkeys escaped,” someone says.

“Onto the runway,” says another.

“How was your journey?” my Geneva brother asks my Sligo brother.

“All good,” he says.

There’s hope yet, I feel, for Ireland’s reputation.

“Well,” his wife says, “that depends on your perspective.”

And hope is going… “There are six of us,” she says, “somehow we booked a four-seater hire-car. Usual disaster.” Going….

“I sat in the back passenger foot-well of the hire-car the whole way down,” she says, “being the smallest, you see.” Gone.