After a weekend in Paris we arrive home and Maria is in the unusual position of unpacking and packing at the same time.

She’s off to Ireland for a week to visit friends and, with Sam going too, the preparations need almost military precision. Nappies, toys, travel cot, pushchair etc, etc.

I drive them to the Stansted Airport for the flight to Knock, and the mixture of relief and excitement within Maria takes over. "I can’t wait to get over there", "A week off!! Great!!". It’s wonderful to see her relaxed after a stressful few weeks, and I only wish I was going with her, but work commitments keep me this side of the water.

The mood changes as we sit in endless traffic jams and, together with 90% of the other passengers, miss the flight.

Maria is told that the next flight is not until the following afternoon, and a night in the airport hotel is the only sensible option if she’s going to get to Ireland.

The journey home seems so strange as I travel back to an empty house, with my pregnant wife and young son in a cramped room in a hotel on the other side of London.

The week on my own is even stranger, you just get used to a routine, and the house is so quiet… In six months time it’s going to be so different.

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