Don’t plan an overseas trip with two children right around Christmas; don’t do it. I’ve done this often enough now that my words should carry some weight. I was doing all right until yesterday, when things blew up at work, and now I am numbly swathing toys in three-year-old wrapping paper, drinking tea and contemplating the task of packing for three weeks in another hemisphere. It is 10.15pm.

The ultimate first world problem is probably the anticipation of missing one’s bad-tempered fourteen-year-old cat. The Germans have a word for that, right? There’s nothing wrong with her except her long-standing anger issues and her regular winter gimpiness. Her coat is good, her eyes are bright, her teeth are sharp and she is as curious and opinionated as ever. But she is nearly fifteen, and one day she will die, and I will be inconsolable.

Worse things happen. I know.

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