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We’ve had our new rescue cockapoo for three weeks now and are on a steep learning curve...

The phone rang. It was 8pm and ten days before Christmas. We were in the middle of supper.

We’re coming up to the two-year anniversary since we moved here.

Dear daughter’s birthday was the most eventful yet. Not, however, because of raucous behaviour, wild entertainment or fireworks. It was her mother that delivered the night’s drama, and unintentionally at that.

I’ve visited not one, not two, three, four, but five hospital wards over the past two weeks.

“The nights are drawing in,” utters Devoted Doctor, as indeed he has done most evenings now since mid-September.

I always thought the most terrifying driving experience of my life was behind me; having had to negotiate Shepherd’s Bush roundabout in busy West London, on my second ever driving lesson.

City life is fairly straightforward. Most people live in flats or terraced houses.

I’d seen pictures of Agas in magazines; you could almost smell a home-made shepherd’s pie bubbling away within...

‘You do realise you’re menopausal’, Dear Daughter remarked to me the other day.

Moving is generally accepted as being one of the most stressful things you can do in life. Bizarrely I quite enjoy it.

He’s a real dandy; a bit of a stunner in fact and always immaculately turned out. He’s been here since we moved in.

My new friend is the very lovely and oh so greatly appreciated pest control man.