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I had a few errands to run this morning, so I dropped the top of the roadster and zoomed off – regretting the top-down nonsense within about a mile, but gritting my teeth and persevering. “Pride must abide,” as my mother used to say infuriatingly (and quite illogically), as she dragged a hairbrush through my tangled five-year-old curls. Thank goodness she can’t see me now: I have a severe case of top-down driving hair.

While I was out I bumped into the mother of a child (now 27) who was at Montessori school with L nearly a quarter of a century ago. It was lovely to exchange news about our offspring, though I was relieved that the subject of The Biting didn’t arise. One day, one of our daughters bit the other in a huge fit of pique about something or other, and upon being spoken to (disappointedly) about this by lovely Mrs Bennison, turned round and sank her teeth into the teacher as well. I’ll leave you to work out whether The Biter was the young woman who is about to qualify as a doctor, or the one who’s an independent film maker – but if you need a clue, I’m slightly pink about the ears just thinking about it.

While I was out I picked up some flowers to brighten up the house, and some plants to cheer up my alpine trough. I can’t resist anemones, though the only ones I’ve ever managed to grow are the Japanese ones (and even they’re a bit sulky in my soil), so this is a cut flower; it was only when I processed the shot that I realised I’d managed (yet again) to pick out probably the most battered one of the bunch. If only my eyesight was as good as my macro lens…