It is clear morning. Often, in Autumn and Winter, the mornings arrive with blue skies at dawn, but by 11am the clouds have arrived.

It was a shock to come home from Italy, to find rust, red, orange and golden leaves carpeting the drive, and the remainder adorning the trees. They were dark green when we left. It is the glorious time before the leaves disintegrate and deteriorate into brown slush, marking the worst of the winter months.

Yesterday, I went to a baby shower dinner in Chelsea, for a friend’s daughter who is due soon.

That night I had another vivid dream. Our dog Domino can sing. Not very well, but he can follow a tune. He sings the Hallelujah chorus. We often wheel him out after a dinner party to perform.

But in the dream, he was sitting on the sofa and looking at me, and he said, “Hello Mummy.” I was incredulous. I said to Geoff, who was reading the paper in the dream, “Did you hear that? He said ‘Mummy’.” We were amazed. The next day, still in the dream, we were feeding Domino in a high chair like a baby, and to our complete amazement, he started to speak fluently, like a young child.

Do you think I may be grieving having a full nest, now that we are empty nesters?

At the moment, a number of my friends are going through Uni applications with their children. It is the season of parental stress for them. And it is the topic of conversation if they are.

It was a relief to past that stage and to know that the children had secure places at Uni, but it was also a watershed moment, for us as parents, when they graduated. A rite of passage for us all.

Hugo’s graduation from Harrow School – only one of four boys’ full boarding schools in the UK – was particularly stellar. Every year, we would troop up on Speech Day, to the school on the Hill, in time for the Bill. This is when the Headmaster, in mortar board and black academic gown, calls out each boy’s name as they parade past. As they go by, they tip their boater and bark, “Yes sir.” The prefects, in top hats, form a guard of honour as they process past.

In the final year, we had a sumptuous lunch organised by the head of house, The Park, one of the twelve boarding houses, and since he was a Jordanian prince, it was very grand indeed.

The boys had slept every night in The Park, from the age of thirteen to eighteen. They arrived as boys and left as men. It was moving to see them line up for photos. Whether they were friends or not, they had weathered five years together under the same roof. A fair amount of champagne and beer was swilled that day.

We also went to a leavers’ dinner. The dinner was in the school cafeteria, where the boys take all their meals from breakfast to dinner. It was just like any other dinner, except the boys were in their Sunday tails, and the food was slightly better, and we were scattered around amongst them.

It was a birdseye view of their daily life. It made me sad that I had missed so much of Hugo’s life in the past five years. He had eaten countless meals here amongst Harrovians and beaks, the name for teachers. Although I had missed him, I also realised that he was part of an amazing, privileged tradition: a long corridor of boys. Harrow School started in 1572. Eight former prime ministers, including Winston Churchill, have passed through, and of course, Benedict Cumberbatch, the actor.

Anna had only been at St Paul’s for two years when she graduated, but again, it was a momentous day. We knew by then she was headed for Cambridge.

Today, I have a Marie Curie fundraising event.