We’ve just returned from a week on the south coast; the beautiful land where green rugged hills meet the ocean. Quite strange to stand on a windswept beach and have cows grazing behind you.

In the days before we left home I wrote list after list. As I went about washing, gathering, packing and checking I couldn’t help thinking about the work of the muma before a holiday. I began to reminisce about the times, as a child, where my brother and I would sit in the packed-to-the-roof Datsun and wonder what on earth our parents were doing. “Can’t we just go…” we’d moan.

If I could, I would tell my ten-year-old self that mum was:

• doing a final check of every room to make sure the necessities were packed
• adding an extra this and that for every family member – just in case
• doing a quick tidy-up of the house (there’s nothing worse than coming home to mess)
• washing the last of the breakfast dishes
• watering the plants
• making sure there were enough snacks for the trip
• filling up water bottles
• checking the supplies in the first-aid kit
• grabbing the ice-cream container and a few towels (we were carsick kids)
• packing the half-full bottle of milk, the butter and the fruit that was about to turn (no waste in our household)
• reminding our neighbours to collect the mail and put our bins out