Mr PippaD and I had been out for a walk. We walked past where, as a child, he would collect conkers and, seeing as we live within about half a mile of where he grew up, it was also where our children collected conkers. We started talking about conkers and he asked if I'd ever played when I was younger. “Not much,” I said. “But I was in the conker championships.”

I have four stools in my kitchen. Perfectly ordinary stools. Nothing distinguishes them from any other stool, apart from once they were sat on by:

This morning, my husband got dressed in about thirty seconds flat. T-shirt. Jeans. Socks. Pants. Done. If he wanted a jumper or hoodie, that might have added another five seconds.

We're quite a traditional family and so on Sundays we have a roast. For some reason, despite everyone normally eating their lunch at some point between midday and 1:30pm during the week, on a Sunday, lunch is at 2pm. It's tradition.

I've been thinking a lot recently, which as you know, for a person like me can be quite dangerous. I've been thinking about what makes me, me. I've been thinking about all the Pippas I used to be, and somehow all the Pippas I still am. I think there are about 27 of us masquerading as one Pippa in a trench coat.

Well... it's only taken me nearly a year to write this. Not because I've forgotten what happened. Quite the opposite, so much went on, so much that even now I almost can’t believe and have to keep checking in my medical notes that it did really happen.