‘Oooow,’ I groan into my pillow, unable to open my eyes, my head feeling like it’s either about to explode or cave in on itself from the pressure it’s enduring. How much did I drink last night? No point measuring by the glass, I feel like I was guzzling by the bucket load. I must’ve been. How on earth did I manage to go on such massive benders when we were younger and then bounce into uni or work the next day? Well, I was probably still drunk, plus I definitely used to make the most of the all-you-can-eat Pizza Hut deals at lunch the following day to take the edge off.

Maybe I’ll treat Chloe later. She’ll love being let loose on the ice-cream machine!

A piercing scream fills the air causing me to scrunch up my face and pull the pillow over my head in an effort to block out the torturous sound of my daughter having what, I imagine, is her first tantrum of the day. They must already be downstairs, meaning I must’ve slept through them coming in to me, or maybe Nick went in to them. Oh fuck, it’s not even the weekend, I realize. Nick has to go to work and I actually have to mother today.

I slowly peer from behind the pillow to glance at my alarm clock. It’s five past eight!

‘Shit!’ I hiss as I jump out of bed, my head aching and pounding beyond belief as I chuck on the nearest pile of clothes (all elasticated and black), smooth down my hair and head downstairs.

‘I DON’T WANT THAT!’ I hear Barnaby cry hysterically before I even get into the room.

‘But it’s mango, your favourite,’ Nick says rationally.

‘No,’ I croak, walking in. ‘That was before. Now it’s watermelon.’

‘Do we have any?’ Nick asks, giving me a quick kiss, managing not to look too aghast at the state of me – which I imagine is quite something and hugely contrasting to the sight of my handsome husband who is already in his suit, ready for work. He also smells amazing, and judging from the sour taste in my mouth, I do not.

I nod.

‘Sorry, Barns,’ he says, grabbing the offending bowl back to make the switch.

‘This is yucky!’ shouts Chloe, who has been studying the toast on her plate since I entered the room.

‘It’s toast,’ shrugs Nick.

‘It’s black!’ she shouts, hurling the toast across the room at him as though it’s a frisbee. She narrowly avoids his suit, yet he laughs.

‘There’s no getting past you!’ he pops another slice into the toaster and chucks her the unwanted mango to eat in the meantime. She’s a mango guzzler so is instantly appeased. ‘Nice work,’ I state, thankful that he has it all under control.

‘How’s the head?’

‘I can’t even answer that right now.’