I’m not SO predictable. I like to think. To fit the mould (I fight), I’d sit here and write how divine it is to have an empty house after the long weeks of summer madness.  I’d wax lyrical about the calm and quiet, adding probably that the Smalls were delighted to leave their screamer of a mother.

And then it would make sense to mention the September/back to school angle.  What a fine excuse it is for us all to readdress what we want to achieve in this next school year – plus the very tempting opportunity to snatch a fabulous new season handbag/coat/pencil case (fail to delete as you desire).

But actually my thoughts are elsewhere this week.  I’m thinking about how brilliant it is to be middle-aged. Not necessarily a thought I often have.  I’m thinking about all those advantages that little bit of age gives you: the confidence to be who you want to be and not really caring too much how you come across.  Because anyone you like is going to be totally accepting of you and the way you are.

It’s taken a while for me to get here, I must admit.  Even recently, I have been bothered enough to lose sleep over troubled friendships.  However, this summer I did the maths and worked out that we (the over 35s) don’t need to worry anymore about those god-awful, petty arguments.  All that wasted energy and anguish is meant for the school playground.

So, as far as I’m concerned, experimenting with vibrant eye shadow, forgetting the names of people’s offspring and applying military precision to your craft cupboard are more than allowed. As is sitting alone in a café wondering how it’s September already… which is what I might just do today.