We did indeed move the lounge, and it looks much better over there under the window. Funny thing I hadn’t realised is just how many photos of my Dad I brought with me. No teaspoons, not enough clothes and barely any books, but photographs everywhere. There he is: there and there and there. I might put one or two of them away. Not because I love him less, but because it’s too much. It’s just too much.

The lads have gone back to school today. Nervous, they were in their own different ways. They didn’t know which class they were in or which friends they would have. One of them worries his shoes will pinch, the other realises that he has outgrown Lightning McQueen and gratefully accepts my black backpack.

I remember those nerves, don’t you? And it’s not so much the nerves, but the fact that when you are six, you have no idea that everyone feels this way. In that respect, it’s easier being forty than it is being six.

Nerves wore off quickly, and excitement settled in. They hugged their friends, made bunny ears behind each other’s backs, then started thumb wars. And in that respect, it’s better being six than it is being nearly forty one.

So, here I am, alone for just a few hours in the house, about to get my butcher’s paper and textas out and get to novel work, bouyed as I am by this rather lovely review.