June 7 – this coming Saturday – is a poignant date in the life of the Dorries family.

It's the day that everything changed. Nothing has been the same since, nor will it ever be again. It's the day in 2019 that my husband Paul, the father of my three daughters, died.

I know that each day this week will feel heavy to me. That's the only way I can describe the feeling that settles in and like a black cloud remains in place until his anniversary has passed.

The loss of a loved one and our reactions to it is something I've long pondered – ever since my brother John, my only sibling, died in a motorbike accident when he was just 27 on November 7, 1986.

Indeed, I've had more than my fair share of unexpected deaths of much-loved family members. Six, to be precise: road accidents, drowning and suicide among them. This has left me with persistent anxiety that means I am acutely fearful of losing another. It's something I must deal with almost daily.

However, I don't believe it accounts for something inexplicable that happens to me whenever an anniversary approaches.

I'm one of those people who barely knows what day of the week it is, let alone the date. As a writer, who works from home seven days a week, the hours, days and months seem to merge. But deep in my heart I always know when the day I lost someone very dear to me is looming.

Last week, I was making the bed when I was suddenly transported back six years to the moment that I'd glanced through the balcony door and saw Paul slowly making his way up the stairs from outside.

Both of his hands were on the rail and a friend was behind him, his hands on Paul's frail back, taking some of the weight and guiding him up.

'That's the last time he'll make it outdoors,' I'd thought sadly.

We'd been out to Broadway Tower, one of our favourite dog-walking locations, for a morning coffee.

On our way home, Paul had asked me to stop the car for a moment as he feasted his eyes upon the beauty of the Cotswolds laid out before him. Neither of us spoke, but we both knew what he was thinking. He was exhausted when he got home, and I ran up ahead to get his bed ready. Now that memory had returned without warning, priming me for what lies ahead – Paul's anniversary.

But what I wasn't prepared for was how, suddenly, grief you believed you'd come to terms with can still overwhelm you.

I spent the weekend with friends in Cheshire and after dinner they got out some old videos of the family holidays we'd shared. And quite suddenly, there was my husband, his voice, his laugh, his gentleness, his corny jokes. I hadn't heard that laugh or seen his face for so long and here he was, in the room with us.

It winded me emotionally. I was swamped with sadness and nostalgia for the happiest days of my life, as a young mum, raising three daughters and two dogs with a husband who saw the funny side of everything.

I've always admired the Irish attitude to death – not just the religious ceremony and the long-lasting wake. But how the death of a loved one continues to be acknowledged down the years.

A few years ago, I was invited to a friend's house in Dublin for a family dinner to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the passing of 'mammy'. Stories were shared, a compilation family video was watched and the wine and the laughter flowed. Some might call it maudlin and indulgent. Not me. I saw it as a deep and genuine mark of respect and homage to a life that was obviously well lived when recalled with such love.

The openness and the way in which many Irish families embrace grief, joyfully celebrating the belief in passing to a better place, is in its own way a form of grief therapy.

There is much to be said for it, and I can't help feeling that we – myself included – would all deal with death and grief a little better if we were a little more like the Irish in our approach.

Mel's Spicy outfit for her birthday

It was former Spice Girl Mel B's 50th at the weekend and she partied the night away with two fellow band members, Emma Bunton (Baby) and Mel C (Sporty). They both opted for the leopard print attire that Mel B (aka Scary Spice) was famous for in her Girl Power heyday.

No sign of Ginger or Posh, though. Let's face it, even if it wasn't widely known that Mel B isn't the most popular Spice in the pack, could you see either Geri Halliwell- Horner, who only ever wears white, or fashion designer Victoria complying with the dress code? No, nor could I.

Emma's still got to learn  

Emma Watson's father is warning the parents of the three children picked to star in the new Harry Potter TV series about the perils of fame. He says he worked hard to keep Emma – Hermione Granger in the Potter films – 'grounded' and that lessons and homework had to be done on set.

I think we can all be forgiven for thinking that oh-so-woke Emma missed out on a few vital lessons as she amassed a £60 million fortune over ten years as Hermione – lessons of gratitude and respect.

She has shown neither to JK Rowling, the woman who made her both rich and famous, in recent years. The fact that they disagree on trans rights simply does not justify this rampant lack of manners.

A heatwave could be on the way, but the beleaguered Co-op – hit by a cyber-attack that has caused disruption to the supply chain and empty shelves – is now stocking festive chicken and cranberry bites.

 Are they frozen leftovers from last Christmas, or fresh and newly frozen for this coming one? Or have bosses lost the plot and decided to restock shelves by bringing Christmas forward by six months? We need to know!

The video of Shadow Justice Secretary Robert Jenrick in vigilante mode as he approaches fare dodgers on the Tube has become one of the most successful political videos of recent times. It's amassed more than 20 million views – and counting – across all social media platforms. The downside? He is now being regularly apprehended by passengers who want to give him new campaign ideas. I don't think this is his last viral video by a long shot.