The Monday morning that my baby Calypso started pre-prep should have been a calm and well ordered miracle of yummy mummy organisation.

Instead, I spent two full hours being sick in our new wet room; when I bent over to blow-dry my hair I was pole-axed by massive waves of ‘sea-sickness’ and my minty-fresh toothpaste was completely anathema. In the end I swiped my brush along the cake of ‘Ivy and Clove’ Nesti Dante soap that I’d found in Tuscany, and brushed with that. It was foul but it did the trick – the medicinal cloves perhaps? At least I wouldn’t be felling all the parents at the new school with sulphurous-morning-breath-from-Hades.

So, on the very day that I needed to make the ultimate of first impressions I was definitely below par. Dai and I had moved heaven and earth to manoeuvre Calypso into this lovely school in Chelsea (with the ultimate aim of Marlborough or at least one of the St. Mary’s, Wantage or Calne – whichever). Billed as London’s premier prep school for girls and boys, the offspring of Russian oligarchs and European royals gaily rub shoulders with those of arriviste bankers and traders like us. Which makes me nervous - which in turn makes my obsessive/compulsive, Type A mania run riot. This is a tough crowd to play; nothing less than perfection is expected by them – or by me.

Happily, I was still able to get into my white True Religion jeans (which provided a much needed confidence boost). Grabbing Calypso from Maria-Immaculata, I shut the front door and felt a peculiar, wet warmth seeping through said white jeans onto my hip.

8.45 am – late - first day at pre-prep - white jeans – morning sickness – and Calypso had wet herself again.

Bu**er!