It’s ironic to be writing a diary page when my actual paper diary – what the Americans more accurately call their “planner” – is a mass of crossings out, changes, and question marks und­er­lined next to many a “TBC”. I am a figure of fun in my family because of my somewhat extreme approach to punctuality: I’m frequently reminded of the time that my sons and I turned up for the Rugby World Cup Final before even the media had gained entry to Twickenham. (My boys took a photo­graph of me – the lone, seated, spectator in the stand – as their most joyful souvenir of the day.) And what about the freezing evening we arrived for a carol service at the Royal Albert Hall before the doors had been unlock­ed? The recounting of this has become a stock part of our family Christmases.