Earlier this weekend, I had a birthday, followed shortly afterwards by my leaving home with bags packed, never to return until the next day. Bernard was remarkably cool about this; his father still more remarkably relaxed.

I phoned home at lunchtime, from the only part of the conference venue that had any mobile phone reception. They had, according to Pete, been into town, played at the playground, and done many wholesome and healthy activities around the house. I then spoke to Bernard, who told me the truth: play LARA! he said. There were MANS, mama! There were MICE!

I went back to my work, happy that they were doing the needful in order to get through the day. Bernard is reported to have slept until 7am (a 1.5 hour lie-in), and been on a fairground ride at the Winter Carnival today.

In other news, I passed my assessed group facilitation. Only four assignments now lie between me and my Licence To Practise.

It went on for years, but the worst of it was when I was eight. I know I was eight because I was given my first diary, and it was 1979, and I wrote in it in tiny letters about very superficial things. We were between houses, living temporarily at my grandparents’ holiday home in the Lake District waiting to move into a house in Kendal.

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