I can smell spring in the air. The plane trees have burst into a canopy of lacy green shoots. After ten minutes in the sun I can feel it biting the back of my neck. I dig out the sunscreen from the bathroom cupboard. With my two urchins, we take our prized Manchester United soccer ball and head down to the park. (The ball was a Royal Show special – my six-year-old now fancies himself as the next Ronaldo).

We slip off our shoes and gallop around on the grass. A wayward kick sends the ball rolling over a lush circle of green and we three take off after it, small daughter shouting over her shoulder: “That was a rubbish shot, Mummy!” (She has all the class of a soccer hooligan).