I leave home just before 1 p.m. My travel plans will see me catch the Bakerloo Line from Warwick Avenue Tube station, change to the Jubilee Line at Baker Street, alight at London Bridge, then board a Southern Rail train that shuttles me to Redhill. According to the online journey planner that I check dutifully for unexpected diversions, the entire trip should take me the usual one hour and twelve minutes. Instead, I cop electrical delays at Baker Street and Southern cancels two trains in a row until ‘unplanned engineering work’ forces us onto a replacement bus service.

Three hours of stop-start travel under my belt, I arrive at the little house I grew up in. My mother opens the front door.

‘I was about to send your father to look for you.’

It amazes me, her steadfast refusal to call my mobile phone. Apparently, even under circumstances in which she’d send my father out on a search party. However, I’m in no mood to spark a lecture about all the possible causes of brain cancer.

‘Come in, it’s freezing out here.’ The door closes behind us.

‘Sorry, Mummy, I should have called. I’ve had a nightmare journey. I need a cup of tea.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She rushes off into the kitchen.

I find Daddy dozing in his wing-chair. He startles when I kiss his cheek.

‘Hello, Daddy.’ He blinks his eyes several times and, half-asleep, places his hands on the arms of his chair, preparing to move. ‘Don’t rush. I’ll drop my bags and be back in a tick.’

Upstairs, in my bedroom, is the same single bed with the same lumpy mattress I slept in since I turned ten. The painted white dressing table still holds the precious ceramic animals – miniature porcelain dogs, horses and cats I collected as a child. The bookshelf under the window is stacked with the classics from my youth, E.B. White to Lewis Carroll, Charlotte’s Web to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. My favourite teddy, Freddie the bear, reclines against my pillow. A lot of happy memories of my childhood are in this room. Though I don’t do it as often as my mother would like, I love coming home.

I dump my overnight bag on the bed and cross the landing to the bathroom. I scrub my hands clean of travel grime, relieve my bladder and wash my hands again. The room smells of lavender. My mother places bowls of potpourri all over the house.

As I descend down the stairs, the aroma of boiled ham replaces the floral perfume. In the cosy kitchen at the back of the house, my mother prepares my father’s early supper.

‘Derek, are you sure I can’t cook you any vegetables?’ she says, as Daddy shuffles into the kitchen after me. ‘I can boil some peas in a jiff. They’ll be lovely with this parsley sauce.’