I was quite often a sickly child and not that fond of attending school on a permanent basis. Staying off school with my mum was my time. On the sofa with a patchwork quilt and mohair blanket pulled up tight to my chin I’d lay there contented, whilst Mum moved around the house – the domestic sounds of distant hovering and clanking plates making me feel secure and warm in my cocoon as I watch cartoons and listen to the soothing sounds of the radio playing tunes in the adjoining kitchen, where heavenly whiffs of freshly baked scones float my way.

With an air of mystery – inky, darkness swamps the cosy room, the blustery winter weather outside rattling the windowpanes like tapping morse-code. The unlit room is temporarily flooded with rays of streaming light when a car trundles by, splashing a puddle outside; the street lamps majestically coming to life like a surrounding security fence.

An unseen world suddenly seems exciting, the elements colliding with one another. Listening for subtle changes I strain my ears, when bam! A rogue gust of wind and pounding rain slams against the side of our house making it feel as if all the air is being sucked back inside to escape. Just then Emer Fudd ‘Oh, Mr Rabbit,’ creeps up on Bugs Bunny and fires a shot which repeats on himself, blackening his face and singeing the two pieces of hair on his cue ball head. Theatrically, I dive under the quilt and wait – suddenly in my child’s mind it’s a game, hiding out until the coast is clear and Bugs says: ‘What’s up Doc.’

For a while I pretend that I’m excavating a mine, pushing deeper into the darkness as I search out missing survivors and earth monsters. Coming up for air I check the room; now a little scared – imaging sounds, I decide to remain on the surface. Anyway, the rescue team will soon be here.

Tiring of the game, I turn down the volume on the TV and gaze up at the picture above the sideboard: Monet’s Poppies, tracing the path of the mother and child as they stroll from the top of the glade through a blurry, red, poppy field to the bottom. Following their steps a few more times, my eyes flutter like moths as I struggle to keep them open, fighting against the pull of blanket street.

‘For the best boy in Ireland,’ says Mum entering the room and placing a tray with heavily buttered toast and marmalade, accompanied by a steamy, mauve mug of glorious, creamy, hot chocolate by my side.

‘Love you Mum,’ I say as she gently places her hand on my clammy brow and smiles.