This week we (or rather I) celebrated National Auntie’s Day.
This is an underrated 24 hour celebration for which I am still awaiting the bundles of presents and cards proclaiming me the ‘best auntie’ in the world - although admittedly I do already have a wine glass, coaster and mug of that ilk from previous celebrations of note.
Indeed, two of my four-strong niece and nephew collection ( all under the age of seven) have travelled to Disneyland in France, to mark this auspicious occasion - or so they told me.
Presumably they will be telling all the beautiful Disney Princesses of their resemblance to their Auntie Nic, of golden locks and a generous disposition.
To be fair, I have been voted auntie most likely to distribute chocolate and allow access to an Ipad, so in their eyes I probably am a saintly figure, as I rarely tell them to go to bed, eat their tea or stop doing that.
An auntie’s role is a privileged position, indeed, and one which is designed for largesse, sweet treats and staying up past bedtime.
I do absolutely love being an auntie.
There is nothing quite like - as a non-mother - knocking on a front door to be welcomed with pair of arms flung around you and be dragged (sometimes literally) to be shown every item, drawing and every recently lost tooth of note.
It makes you feel pretty popular.
And not just with the children as mum and dad collapse into a sofa with relief or run to the pub never to be seen again.
It’s also a privilege to be able to walk away when the screaming becomes too shrill, the food distribition too messy and to sleep in past 8.30am.
At this age at least, my presence as auntie looms large in their lives and I have the opportunity to share, teach and influence, with the blessing of their parents.
My eldest niece (that’s you Emily) has her ‘own room’ in my house apparently, recently taking her cousin Beth on a guided tour to see.
So it’s official, I am the best auntie in the world.
And I need a bigger house.