For the umpteenth time, Julie opens her handbag and checks she has everything: purse, ticket, phone, keys, card. Yes, it’s all there, “no need to fuss, Mum,” that’s what he’d say, her clever son, Dan.

Taking out the ticket, she reads: “Newstead to Worksop.”

She imagines Dan, getting up about now. Having breakfast with his housemates. They probably eat rubbish, if she knows those lads. If she were there, she’d do them a great big fry up.

But then, that would spoil it for the meal later, wouldn’t it? She wonders what posh nosh they’ll be fed after the ceremony, hoping it’s not too stuffy and formal. She’ll only end up embarrassing him by using the wrong fork. Who was she trying to kid? She’ll stick out like a tabard on a catwalk. Fancy wearing her leather jacket. All the other mums will be in their best frocks or trouser suits.

She’d cut it fine; had to power walk. Now she’s sweating. Bloody menopause. Shouldn’t it be here by now?

There’s a groan to her left, a bloke in a high vis and work boots informs her that the train is cancelled. She looks at the screen for confirmation. The next one should be arriving in thirty minutes.

She’ll miss her connection.

Well, that’s it then. Can’t turn up late. It wasn’t meant to be; she wasn’t the type of person that spent weekdays catching trains and mixing with intellectuals. That’s Dan’s world, not hers. His Dad will be there with his hat-wearing, eco-friendly, manicured new wife. They won’t show him up.

She takes out the ticket, intending to throw it in the bin, then thinks again. “Can you use this, love?” She asks high vis bloke, who is scrolling on his phone and smoking a sickeningly fragrant e-cig. He looks at her like she offered him twos on the last sheet of loo roll.

When she gets to her parents’ house, she lets the carer go. “I can sort them,” she says, kicking her shoes off. She’d worn heels even though she knew trainers would have been much more practical.

She pokes her head round the living room door. “What you watching, Mam?” she asks, as if she didn’t know.

‘Consumer champions’ Gloria Hunniford and Angela Rippon are holding the energy companies to account on behalf of pensioners up and down the country. The sound is cranked so high, her Mam doesn’t even know she’s there.

She heads upstairs, pausing at the door of her old room, half expecting to see Bonnie Tyler and Meat Loaf staring back at her from the walls. Of course, they had long since made way for Dan’s football posters. The bed, where she slept until the day her dad gave her away, still sports the single Notts Forest duvet set his gran got him for when Dan came and stayed weekends. Those times when she needed a break.

She gets her Dad washed and dressed, puts his eggs on to boil, and then sets to with the duster. Soon they’ll have a picture of Dan in his cap and gown to add to the trinkets on the mantelpiece.

At least they have a grandson to be proud of.