Sunday was the last day.

Our last lazy-dazy, silly-billy, do-nothing-at-all day together.

And it felt like the last day in the world; the end of everything; certainly the end of an era.

I looked at August. I let my eyes linger on his little pork thighs. I stroked his feathery hair. I put my face to his face and he clamped his gums down on my nose.

We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary — there was the usual jaunt to the supermarket, the changing of nappies, the bath and bed, but everything was bittersweet to the brim.

Two days on, well, we’ve both survived. Reports from the babysitter have August squealing with delight over peek-a-boo and her renditions of “Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.” In fact, might he be having more fun with her than he did with ol’ mummy?

If so, I’m OK with that. Really, I am. Besides which, work is its own brand of fun. And sometimes — in fact, more often than not — I forget to be sad. So there we are.