Another working mother guilt trip as I drag D off to the childminder’s for the third day in a row. He begs to be allowed just one day at home to play with his own toys and watch his own videos. A perfectly reasonable request, considering it’s the summer holidays but only boys with stay-at-home mums get that sort of treat. I don’t dare tell him he’s got another five weeks of childminder days after this with just one brief respite for our own family holiday.

Back home to log onto to the cheerful news that from December, E and I will officially no longer be spinsters (old and on the shelf) but single women (dynamic, racy and independent). Apparently Registrar-General Len Cook has decided to abolish the terms "bachelor" and "spinster" on marriage certificates and haul everyone into the 21st century in time for the first Civil Partnership ceremonies at the end of this year. From then, everyone getting married, gay or straight, will simply be described as "single". Which is-er-what they are before they’re married. Well done for striking such a courageous blow for modernity, Len.

The C of E is already reeling at the prospect of such a revolutionary change. So much for the Church to take in one week when it’s already tying itself in knots telling its clergy that it’s just about all right to be gay as long as you don’t have sex or expect the church to recognise or bless your civil partnership. You couldn’t make it up.

Sunday

Lunch at my mother’s where we all eat too much trifle then sit around lazily until forced out to the nearby playground by my brother, over on a visit from Lubeck, aglow with Germanic briskness. I cruelly force D to practise swinging himself on the swings rather than pushing him, then compound my cruelty by challenging him to a race along the track marked out in the grass.

I don’t expect him to mind when I run as fast as I can rather than slowly to let him win. But I look back from my triumphant spot on the finishing line to see him wailing piteously, in floods of tears, being comforted by my mother. She can’t believe I’m so competitive that I won’t let my own son win.

You don’t understand, Mum. D is the most competitive and bossy child on the planet (as anyone would realise having listened to him allocating everyone tasks all afternoon). I just misjudged the level of the competition slightly.

Saturday

The first day of the school holidays and we start as we mean to go on by rushing D up to the church for a day-long "holiday club". Four whole childless hours on a Saturday morning to do what we like with while D is entertained by a set of keen volunteers whose glueing, sticking and cutting skills are second to none. Unlike ours. What we’ve planned to do is to have a long boozy lunch, possibly preceded by a visit to a warehouse out in the wilds of south east London to check out antique wardrobes.

What we actually do is go to the Oxfam shop, go home then collapse exhaustedly in front of the miserly pickings from the fridge (no online shopping delivery until this evening). Too tired to enjoy our own freedom. The curse of motherhood strikes again.

Back to the church to collect D and witness the grand finale of the holiday club, a chaotic display of Scottish dancing between the pews of the church. D is being whirled and dragged through the dance steps by one of the most experienced helpers and is looking a bit bewildered. But he looks almost expert beside the parents who leap up to join in and cause complete mayhem by ignoring instructions and being unable to tell left from right.

What has D learned from the day? That "boys like cool and girls like nice". We probe further. Cool means "things you can make into stuff and that’s all I’m going to tell you today, Mum." Right. I can’t wait to hear more.

Thursday

D has a massive black eye and cut on his cheek. It’s so big that we get stared at in the street and I’m almost frightened to appear in public with him in case passers-by think I did it. I didn’t, I promise, and neither did our childminder, who was in charge when he stupidly tried to jump over the bottom of the slide in the park and caught his face on the metal side. Just a few hours later, reports start coming in from E’s sister’s house that D’s granny has tripped over a paving stone and now has – yes – a black eye. I’ve heard of coming out in sympathy but this is ridiculous.