Every now and again something happens that pulls me up hard and makes me realise that, all too often, I'm completely wrong and need to open my eyes and my mind. That happened this week when I sat with the teenage son of one of my closest girlfriends and helped him write a tribute to his best friend who had died only days ealier in a dreadful car crash.

This horrific crash claimed the lives of three young lads, all close friends and left a fourth critically injured. My friend's son would most likely have been with them on the night if he hadn't been away for new year.

I have a teenage son and I realised, as I sat there, that I'm not actually a great mother to him. I spend far too much time moaning at him or complaining about him to others, how messy he is, how he doesn't work as hard as I think he should at school, how he wears his jeans so low his pants show, how he plays his music too loudly.

When did I last tell anyone how he happily will jump up and make me a cuppa, how he didn't even flinch when he came in with his friends and I was dancing around like a mad woman to Take That, how he's completely relaxed about giving me a hug, how he'll come shopping with me and tell me I just have to buy that dress because I look great in it?

So I'm doing it now.