Winter Sunday memories from childhood are of my Mam tackling endless piles of ironing and the house draped with washing, and on a dismal Sunday in March I find myself repeating the scene. The main difference is the quantity of ironing; I’m ironing for one, sorting out what I need to pack for the week ahead and I’m watching CSI on DVD rather than a black and white film from the Forties on BBC1, which was Mam’s entertainment of choice. I hate ironing: some find it soothing, but I can’t bring myself to do it without a distraction for the eyes.

My colleague, M , never irons shirts before packing, choosing to stuff them in a duffle-bag and have an ironing session when he arrives at the hotel. I can see his logic, as even if I pack carefully into the suitcase there is a likelihood that all will not be perfect at the other end. There are now sites giving guidance in the art of packing and folding into a suitcase- . I still haven’t found a perfect solution, and am unlikely to as long as the suitcase has to be dragged by me, along with laptop bag and handbag, in and out of taxis; stuffed on trains and the Tube; along city streets to this week’s office, and then on to a hotel. The images of your luggage being whisked away to arrive before you at your destination are entertaining , but I don’t want my luggage looking better than I do at journey’s end. So tommorrow at 6.00am I’ll be packing the suitcase and the laptop bag and hoping I’ve remembered everything.