Sitting in the IKEA cafe on Saturday 23 September, I felt my phone buzzing for the umpteenth time that day. Another hour, another mega. I flicked the notifications off entirely. The meatballs and mashed potato with lingonberry jam were tasteless. Daughter and I were having a fantastic day, but I couldn’t escape the alerts and messages pouring in. The west of Britain, and in particular Wales, it seemed, had become an extension of the North American flyway. And here I was buying cushions, ornamental plant pots, towels and a chopping board.
It was the week of daughter’s birthday, and I’d been tied up every evening with sorting party bags and decorations, booking bouncy castles, chatting to other parents, up to my elbows in wrapping paper and covered head-totoe in buttercream…
