Wake up, walk dog, deal with the emails over coffee… head to work. My mind wanted to be anywhere other than focussed on the day ahead, and I allowed it to wander.

I caught sight of a young man on a motorbike, convinced for a moment that it was my younger son, even though I knew that was impossible. Fifteen years a biker, he had sold the cherished beast when he was expecting his second daughter in order to buy a sensible, family car. He had done so without a backward glance or the least regret, because his little family is his world.

I probably had more regrets about the sale of that bike than he did. I knew how much he missed riding. It was part of him and lifted his spirits like nothing else… except his daughters and they will always come first. He had done the right thing and, perhaps, one day he would get a new bike. Maybe even the R6 he had wanted. If only I could win that lottery I don’t play or… Shaking off the daydreams, I arrived at work. I wasn’t looking forward to the day.

Windy, wintry weather is not ideal for playing with cold water outdoors… and cleaning humungous hot tubs and pond pumps are not my favourite jobs at the best of times. Being already soaked by the time I had finished, I thought I might as well wash the car too. It was going to rain anyway so, this time, at least, I couldn’t be blamed for the weather.

I was not a happy bunny, but while I was outside freezing, a pair of red kites wheeled low overhead, then soared and tumbled in their mating dance. As I looked up to watch, I saw the resident wren hopping around in the rose bush and noticed the new growth of leaves. There was even a flower bud swelling, for all the world as if spring had already been and gone. My friendly robin began our daily conversation, sitting close to me on the fence and singing, leaving gaps for me to respond and imitating my calls. I still wonder what we are saying to each other, but I can’t be insulting him as he comes back every day for more.

Once more indoors, I laughed with my eldest son as nostalgia brought a tear to his eye as he heard a theme tune play. It was one of those tunes that have so many associations that you could never unravel them and pinpoint the reason why it moves you so. But it does, and the shared moment means you do not need to ask.

Then there was a call from my younger son who needed a lift. I had been planning on calling there anyway to see my granddaughters. The eldest did not notice me arrive and her face when she looked up to find grandma watching her was a picture. The younger one is all eyes and mischief as she discovers the world and is a delight. We went out into the garden, so they could play on the trampoline, and I watched them collapse into giggles together. I left them to it after a while and they played while I watched from the warm, talking to my son’s partner and reminiscing.

It was odd, but we were both of us thinking about the little ones eyes. She has her father’s big, brown eyes and we were both carried back to a hospital ward, nearly ten years ago now, when those eyes moved all who saw them, as he watched over his elder brother, who was fighting his way free of the coma in which he had been left. The memory of those eyes and that smile will always haunt and move me.

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