Latest news from Mrs B on D’s progress – very bright but can’t be bothered to actually commit anything to paper. No great surprise there. Every time he has writing homework it’s like pulling teeth.

Talking is another matter. Never let silence fall, is D’s motto. Let’s start the day with a telling off. Him telling me off, not the other way round. He sits straining on the loo and announces he’s not eating enough vegetables and it’s our fault.

How can he say that? If there’s one thing E is obsessed with, it’s eating vegetables and getting D to eat them. And I’ve seen his school menus or as school caterer Scolarest prefers to call it, The New Choice Summer Menu. Every day’s menu is adorned with healthy pictures of bananas, green beans and baked potatoes with low fat fillings. The menu itself has more choices than the Savoy, with not a turkey twizzler in sight. Garden peas and selections of salads, grated carrots, diced swede - you name it, it’s there.

But does it taste as good as it sounds? More to the point, how often is D’s choice the Queen of Hearts jam tart and custard or the milk pudding and chocolate sprinkles instead?

Monday

What are clouds made of? Why didn’t that magnet stick to the outside of that metal saucepan? Right, I’m sure I know the answers. Or maybe I don’t. This is a terrifying foretaste of things to come. I can confidently predict that any request for help with science or maths homework more complicated than the current 2+2 stuff will result in a complete mental shutdown on my part.

At least such weighty questions have distracted D from the fact that he’s walking to school in a still damp uniform sweatshirt. Slight laundry glitch. It’ll dry on him.

Sunday

We now possess the following: a cheerleader’s twirling baton, another set of Christmas lights, Christmas wrapping paper, a black lacy hat of the type worn at Ascot or smart weddings still in its box and sundry Genesis and Beatles CDs. All courtesy of a skip at the bottom of the road. And as E prowls round for a second look, the owner of the skip comes out and presses a boxed Playstation into her hands. It’s her husband’s, she says. Does he know his wife is giving away all his stuff? Maybe he’s not too bothered. The Playstation has no instructions and a tangle of unidentifiable cables that don’t seem to include a cable to plug the machine into the mains.

By the end of the day, the skip is almost empty, plundered by eager neighbours as well as us. A good haul and a useful bit of recycling. As you say Alison, something to be proud of. You’re right about second hand clothes. Almost the only new clothes D has had in his life are a walking anorak and his school sweatshirts (changed design so no option but to buy new) and he doesn’t seem to have suffered. What’s the point in buying new clothes when his cousin passes on sacks of almost unworn, ultra-trendy clothes courtesy of his wealthy parents? And one of D’s favourite items is our neighbour’s son’s cast off football shirt.

E breaks off from her skip emptying activities long enough for us to go out to lunch. On our own. With proper two-way conversation. And silences. It takes a bit of getting used to.

Saturday