Last Monday was a really emotional day for me: my last son graduated from high school and he’s going on a mission for the Mormon Church soon. I’ve already experienced it four times with my other sons: my oldest went to London, my second son to Italy, my third to Scotland and my fourth the Netherlands. They come back, but the little boy stays out there. He never comes back.

I lost my poodle, Mighty. He was out of my sight for just seven minutes; he went out on an adventure and didn’t come back, and was taken by a coyote, I think. It was awful, really painful; he taught me about love and loyalty, and how the connection between living beings can be.

When our baby took to the boob for the first time: happy tears at him having his first feed, but also sad at the thought of how many more boobs he’ll seek out before he’s truly happy.

I got very emotional yesterday with a dear friend who was telling me about his relationship falling apart.

A caravan. I was brought up going on caravan holidays – but we quickly realised that a double-axle caravan was too much of a commitment and sold it.

I’d rather be enjoyed while I am still here.

There are different flavours of happy, but I think my favourite is the quiet contentment when several generations of family are sitting together watching a crowd-pleaser like Harry Potter on the telly.

I wanted to be like my dad, who was an academic, because he had an office packed full of books, always had loud music on, and seemed to get to do what he wanted.

My biggest disappointment is always myself. That’s my Catholic upbringing.

It would have been lovely to have grown up in private like a lot of my friends.