My house looks like I’ve been burgled. No, hang on, like I’ve been burgled but the burglars were hungry, helped themselves to breakfast and left their dishes of half-eaten porridge all over the kitchen table, then decided they needed a change of clothes and emptied our wardrobes out onto the floor. Even the pictures are hanging wonky on the walls, and my eyes feel like they are closing each time I stand still. Was there a party here last night? Ten or even, eek, 15 years ago I might have thought there had been. These days it’s just the detritus of a hectic family life, experienced by so many of us in the rush to actually get out of the house in the morning.

This morning was particularly fraught. My husband has gone into hospital for a blood transfusion, and had to leave the house at 8.15. Before that, we had to change his dressings (he still has a surgical wound on his tummy from last year’s nightmare), get the children washed and dressed and the first born looking presentable for school. This is no mean feat, as his hair has more bounce and bouff than Boris Johnson’s. Oh, and add to that the joys of the school teddy, Bobby Bear, who stayed with us for the second time in two weeks last night. He is starting to take liberties! At least this week we didn’t have to put his pjs in the drier five minutes before the school run. I can’t help but think all this would easier if I hadn’t been up half the night with teething baby gal, who was up and at ’em once again at seven. I’m not complaining, I love being a family and the noise and chaos that it brings. I just wish, like every other parent I know bar a very lucky few, for a little bit more sleep. Are you listening, kids?

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