Easter has a very different feel to Christmas, and I think that’s why I’ve always had a soft spot for it. There’s still chocolate, and there’s still that sense of a break from normal life, but it doesn’t come with the same weight of expectation. Nobody is trying to manufacture magic or create the perfect day. It tends to feel looser than that, a little more relaxed, as though everyone has quietly agreed to take their foot off the pedal for a few days and see what happens.

Mothering Sunday, or Mother's Day has a very particular atmosphere around it. The cards appear in the shops weeks in advance, pastel coloured and full of tidy messages about appreciation, gratitude and breakfast in bed. Social media fills with smiling photographs of flowers and handmade cards, and the whole thing carries a gentle but unmistakable suggestion that this is a day when mothers should feel celebrated...and sometimes it is.

There’s a very specific moment each year when you realise you’re doing the school run in actual daylight. Not the gloomy, half-lit sort where the streetlights are still hanging on and everyone looks faintly grumpy, but proper light. You can see the colour of the sky. You notice the daffodils. You catch yourself thinking, “Oh… this feels different.” It’s a small shift, but it carries weight.