According to my daughter, she became my mother round about the age of 10.
Catherine Deveney: I’d love to take a wee holiday from being a feminist – but there is always too much still to say
Next week, around 400 people will gather in Piccadilly for the midnight launch of The Testaments, Margaret Atwood’s Booker nominated sequel to her dystopian novel, The Handmaid’s Tale.
Catherine Deveney: Bravo to the female athletes who “just did it” to force action on sponsorship deals
The first time I saw the “Run Like a Girl” adverts for Always, I had a lump in my throat.
For months before my third child was born, my son, then five, was adamant about his preferences.
The girl’s face, I remember, seemed blanched and was framed with straggling waves of dark hair. She was young but her pale skin had the grey pallor of sickliness, her hooded eyes surrounded by dark circles.
The original copper of the Statue of Liberty is famously green now, tarnished with the vagaries of time, but the lamp of Libertas, of welcome, still supposedly gleaming and lifted to the world.
Catherine Deveney: Sergeant Rees-Mogg of the vocabulary constabulary is on a mission to use words to divide us
I always thought there must be some esoteric purpose to Jacob Rees-Mogg but for the life of me, could never work out what it was.
We kept very still as the tiny bird fluttered above our table in the coffee shop courtyard yesterday, periodically swooping to peck up scattered cake crumbs.
Catherine Deveney: We have bequeathed young people plenty to fear – but there are many brave faces among them
What were you doing at 16, the age of Sweden’s teenage climate change activist, Greta Thurberg?
It is always salutary to - metaphorically - walk in another person’s shoes, feel the ways the uppers chafe, or pebbles cut through thinning soles.
My optimistic enthusiasm for lotteries died around the time that I was told my chances of winning were roughly equivalent to my chances of being murdered.
Catherine Deveney: There are bad people and people in bad situations and failing to see the difference is a tragedy
Old photographs are bitter sweet, a captured moment lost forever.
Catherine Deveney: Rejoice at 50 years of the Open University – but the fight to dismantle inequality goes on
Hearing about the egalitarianism of the Open University at a conference on life-long learning last week, the classics teacher of my all-girls convent school sprang to mind.
Catherine Deveney: Stone me, why can’t you see – these toking Tories are blind to injustice and hypocrisy
Given that a side effect of taking cocaine is losing touch with reality, it surely can’t just be Boris Johnson and Michael Gove who have indulged in the Hooray Henry party.
Catherine Deveney: What sort of father does Ivanka Trump see when she peers through the Palace curtains?
This year, my father will have been dead twenty years. I still feel shocked. The original explosion has long gone, but the aftershocks still reverberate through my life.
It is the lure of the serendipitous find that takes me to the charity shop at the end of the lane, an Aladdin's cave of "stuff" that I don't need when I walk in but can't walk out without.
Catherine Deveney: I can’t agree Benjamin’s misogyny is a joke but the law in its current form certainly is
It is always so disconcerting to see a man get on in life when his shoe size is bigger than his IQ.
If you were ever tempted to think that social class in Britain didn’t matter anymore, one mixed-race royal wedding (Quick! Smelling salts!), and the resulting royal baby, would quickly disabuse you of the notion.
The yellow rose arrived from China in the 19th century, a delicate bloom characterised by a subtle scent of black tea.
Jeremy Kyle’s Britain is a surreal place to live. A big gladiatorial ring where Emperor Jeremy parades the underbelly of the nation’s great unwashed, dressed in trackies, for some tongue-lashing derision.
Catherine Deveney: It is not just Notre Dame that needs rebuilding, it is the Catholic church itself
There was something about the fact that the Notre Dame fire happened in Holy Week that made it seem all the more portentous; the soaring needle of the cathedral’s spire raging from within with livid flames, before falling through the Parisian sky like a giant firework, while locals gasped and wept below.
We closed the asylums and stopped talking about lunatics – but are we really much better at dealing with mental illness?
Isaac was almost 80 when he died, a tiny figure, wizened like an over-ripe apple.
My mother’s ghost whispers to me as I push the supermarket trolley past the Mother’s Day cards - no need for those now - hovers on my shoulder as I rummage for mushrooms in the fruit and veg.
I guess there’s no harm in a little splenetic, foaming-at-the-mouth rage now and then when trying to reduce the blood pressure.
Entering St Peter’s Basilica in Rome, a priest once told me, is like entering heaven.
There is nothing quite like a sense of hope in some future event to make you feel alive: the fevered rush of anticipation; the secret optimism of the unknown outcome.
As I write this, winter sunshine is streaming into the attic room where I have temporarily shut myself off from the world to think.
Such a bittersweet month, December: the delicate scent of clementine oranges and the silvery flash of tinsel and the dance of fairy lights in the winter dark, all of it threaded together with the cheer of a Christmas yet to come and the aching, aching nostalgia of all the Christmases gone by.
In life’s most difficult moments, I have sometimes taken comfort from the notion that no matter what else can be taken from you, your mind is your own.
The year is 2010. Donald Trump is whistling through Aberdeen like the north wind, blowing all and sundry to one side or another as he goes.
The memory I am about to recount has worn a groove in my mind, stopping and starting like a video as I examine the nuances of the stilled frame.