NEARLY four o'clock... the boys will be coming in from school soon. Oops. No they won't. Never again will my little boys be whooping round the corner from the school bus straight to the biscuit tin.

Senior Son left school three years ago and although his brother has only just finished, he's hardly caught the bus since he passed his driving test before Christmas.

But I still sit in the study and keep an ear open.

I've done it for the past ten years and it'll probably be another ten or so before I stop expecting them to walk in at four o clock.

I mean, I still think of Tuesdays and Thursdays as the days for Toddler Group. Wednesday always was - and probably still is - children's session at the surgery, to which we wore a little path with little boys with glue ear or tonsillitis.

It's many a long year since we've done that, but still the day and time and day clutters up my memory banks.

But I still wake up on Thursday mornings filled with gloom because way back in the early sixties I started Thursdays with double maths followed by physics. But I never mind that misery now, because it is followed by that blissful moment when I realise that I no longer know what a quadratic equation is - and it DOESN'T MATTER

But still all these days and times still mark themselves on our internal clock.

At least in those days, I only had my own mental diary in my head. The trouble with being a mother is that you always have to carry everyone else's as well. All that fuss about the right kit, recorder, ingredients for cookery or the form and dosh for yet another school trip. There was always something to remember in the middle of the morning chaos. And that's why, long after the boys have forgotten, I still think Thursday is Cubs and Fridays is Scouts. Tuesday's swimming and Wednesday's football.

It was also, briefly, violin as well - Smaller Son would stagger out of the door weighed down by books, football kit and trying to make the violin look as inconspicuous as possible.

And Monday, many years ago, was the day on which Senior Son had history homework. It was about the only homework he ever did, which is why it has stuck so firmly in my mind. Coincidentally, it was also the only homework that was marked with furious lashings of red pen, underlinings, angry comments and spelling corrections. They were doing the Romans and despite all that red ink, Senior Son never did learn how to spell Caesar.

What really messed up my internal diary was when the school went on to a two week timetable. A double calculation. Not only did we have to remember what day, but also what week it was. Half term could short circuit the entire system.

But now all that is over. Anything the boys have to remember now should be entirely their own responsibility. In any case, most of the time from now on, they're not going to be here to be reminded and I won't know what they need to remember.

If my mind were a computer I could simply press a button and wipe away the clutter of the last twenty or so years of days and dates and times and commitments. Delete File. File Deleted.

But I bet I still listen out for the school bus.