I think it happened somewhere between the episiotomy and the endless sleepless nights, a seismic shift in my pleasure receptors and what I consider a reward. Once upon a time I took great pleasure in travelling, new shoes, finding the right shade of lip gloss with a zero hair-stick factor – I’m not saying these things no longer give me pleasure, but these days they are considered more of a luxury. After having children, the little time vampires have an effect on how you view menial tasks; perhaps it’s because prior to the little second-suckers entering our lives we would freely roam super markets, taking minutes deliberating over which fresh juice one might prefer to sup in peace on a lazy Sunday morning, or leisurely separate, not only lights from darks but, silks from wool as we generously applied a suitable washing solution based on the fabric composition.

But not only do I dream fantasise of a trip to Waitrose (sod it, I’d be just as thrilled with a Lidl these days) on my own, for at least an hour, without having to separate what looks like Tyson Vs Holyfield in the bakery dept as my 7 & 8 yr old go hell for leather for the third time whilst childless twenty-somethings gawk in disbelief, but I find myself ranking household chores into things I must do first before I’m allowed to move on to the more “fun” tasks.

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