The importance of 31 December is well documented, but no one ever talks about the angst of 22 July. Or 23, or 25, depending on where you live. But while the date may vary, the bittersweet feelings are surely universal. The end of the school year is an oddly profound moment.

This one’s hitting different in our house too, as our son is about to finish primary school. It’s poignant and nostalgic – wasn’t he just a baby yesterday? There is, however, one part of his cosy little school that I won’t miss.

Kids tend to walk home on their own from secondary school, so my pickup days will come to an end, and – hallelujah! – so will my experiences of spectacularly failing to make small talk with fellow parents while we wait, my cheeks burning with shame. The school should put up a plaque in memory of all the occasions when I have died inside.

Over the seven years my kid has been there, I have made some really good friends. But let’s be honest, mostly I’ve made nodding acquaintances with people with whom the only common ground is that our children are in the same year. Were it not for the fact that we all had sex at a similar time 11 years ago, our paths would never have crossed. Although I’m delighted that has only just occurred to me, because if I had realised........

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