I have just delivered my son to the train station.

Every single holiday I am seen at the train station meeting one of or all of my off-spring and taking them back again.

It is beginning to feel like a club. There on the platform or sitting inside sipping hot coffee in polystyrene cups and scanning the Telegraph are Mothers, waiting for their student/travelling children or delivering them back again to go back to Uni/London/start-of-travelling-experience.

I wipe the tears from my eyes as I climb back into the 4×4 tractor so essential for the muddy lanes/rutted tracks/deep holes/broken roads of Devon – unlike, and cannot be compared to, the unnecessary Chelsea Tractors of London.