I am sat in the boys’ room on a sheepskin rug in front of a radiator, thinking how much I like this nursery being a nursery.

That’s not to say I don’t miss Sarah being in here like a lopped-off arm: I do. But this room is small enough that even a moderately enthusiastic forward roll would go awry (and has). Adult furniture didn’t suit it. Baby beds do.

We have been playing in here for an hour – Teddy screeching dire threats to his rattles in the cot, Henry fiddling with trains. I went out to get something and found him in my spot when I came back, tucked under my blanket by the radiator.

The prospect of having a whole new room to hang out in – and a radiator to sit by – is making me giddy. It is green-and-white and restful, and it’s just increased our play space by 100%.

While we’re on the subject of house tweaks, I did not know it was possible to be this happy about looking at curtains, and then my birthday Van Gogh arrived to sit next to them, and the whole thing just tipped into indecent giddiness. That print is the first thing I see coming up the stairs, and suddenly I’m in Paris, in the Musee D’Orsay, standing so close to the painting I can’t see anything but the colours and feeling very much like I want to cry. That is an intensely good feeling to have every time I come home from Tesco. Van Gogh can add that to his list of illustrious achievements.