It’s funny how days of the week come to mean different things as you get older. When I was a kid, I loved weekdays. I got to go to school and escape from my claustrophobic family. Then, when I was at university, I loved the freedom of weekends to sleep in and loll about. I loved them even more when I started work. Now, I hate weekends. I couldn’t say that to anyone before I met you. As a middle class mother you’re meant to love weekends. It’s all about living the fantasy from a Boden catalogue – the whole family decked out in expensive stripes and florals, splashing about somewhere in Cornwall. Everyone’s smiling and the sun is always shining. The reality is that everyone is at home but I’m still expected to do the housework and entertain the children at the same time.

When you mentioned that you hated weekends, I thought ‘Yes!’. Finally someone who sees family life the same way that I do – relentless, exhausting and soul-destroying. I love my children but Christ, I’d love to be able to have some time when I’m not looking after other people. We used to commiserate about this as the weekends drew closer and wish each other luck for the onslaught.

Now, though, weekdays are the worst. I get to stand in the same playground as you in the mornings but I can’t talk to you. I get to watch you walk out of the playground and leave while I take Youngest Child to her classroom. By the time I walk back to my car you’re long gone. In the old days, we’d chat on the way into school, in the playground and then you’d wait for me outside. Now, I walk back to my car still shaking from being near you and not being able to talk to you or touch you. I get in my car and cry all the way home. At least at weekends I know that there’s no chance of an encounter with you. How times have changed.