I am marooned of Suffolk today. I haven't ventured out of the house in three days, since youngest has been quite poorly, and I’m starting to get the wild-eyed, unkempt look of a recluse. I always quite fancied the idea of spending my latter years in splendid isolation somewhere, the madwoman on the hill instead of in the attic, perhaps, but actually I now feel I may be better suited to being in the centre of the action somewhere. I’ve been jumping on the phone, and gazing longingly at delivery vans passing by – you never know, even if they’re not for me, someone might want directions. At least the weather is nice (we finally had rain in the early morning, hurrah!) and I keep popping out into the garden with such regularity that the birds have perfected their alarm calls at my approach – you can hear the rooks teaming up with the blue tits in defiance at my continued presence. I hear the call of housework to be done, bills to be paid, Things To Do all over the place, but reason that I can’t really start anything, because I’m bound to be interrupted as soon as I do. My daughter has perfected both the pleading, little, tug-on- the-heartstrings voice and the imperious and relentless commands, and she’ll switch between them according to which she believes will get the best effect. Since my housework avoidance techniques are second to none, (I will truly never be the sort of person who co-ordinates their underwear drawers), I call happily delude myself that a quick flick here, a wipe there, constitutes a good spring clean, and, since I am also bone-tired, sitting in front of the computer once again appears to be the best use of my time. Funny how I am always trying to pull the children away from screens, whilst hunched over the laptop myself. I did promise myself that I would restrict blogging to once or twice a week, so it’s not looking good already.

My mother is coming over for a couple of hours this afternoon, so I can get to the supermarket (oops - hope Chickenix isn’t stalking us). The very idea feels dangerously liberating, I may have a sensory overload (Lights! Noise! People!) and start manically filling the trolley with chocolate, ice-cream and wine. Or talk for slightly too long to the cashier, or start up random and pointless conversations in the car park – something that will mark me out as a little mad, no doubt. I'm getting used to it.