I had to get up at 6am on Friday to go to my Naughty Driver Course, and I realised on the drive there that I felt worse than even getting up at stupid-o’clock to go to something I didn’t want to go to had any right to make me feel.

By the time I got home I was sure that I was feeling ill. Almost crying with tiredness, aching, feeling as though putting a sentence together was akin to doing a 2000 piece jigsaw of a millpond, blindfolded…

So, I had some lunch, I sent my apologies for the party we were supposed to be going to on Friday evening, and I went to bed. I slept like a stone, got up, and watched some TV I’d recorded. (I have only recently discovered the Great British Bake-Off. What was I not told?!) Alan and I had something undemanding for supper and a quiet evening. I was in bed and asleep again by 10pm.

Saturday and Sunday have been full of knitting and reading and TV and cups of tea and catching up with friends and family and Flora curled up on my lap. I’ve been pottering in the kitchen, nurturing leaven and testing cake recipes. Yesterday, Alan and I took a walk along a bright beach under a blue sky while Hope ran circles round us.

And today, I feel better. Not ‘hand me my rollerblades and a map of the Pennine Way’ better, but as though I am myself again. Well, focussed, ready to do what I need to do this week.

So. I’m 41 and I’m getting the hang of it: if you feel lousy, be extra kind to yourself. You’ll be glad when Monday morning comes around.