I’LL be the first to admit that I am not a morning person.

Seriously, though, are there any full-time working parents out there who’d say they are?

Who on earth would enjoy a tight time period in which (usually) all of the members of a family have to get themselves out of bed, washed, dressed, fed and ready for the day ahead?

The only way I can cope is to do everything possible the night before. Thus, packed lunches are already made, and clothes are laid out ready to be donned the next day when zombie-fied folk are staggering around with half-open eyes barely able to raise a smile let alone utter a sentence.

The few people I do know who say that they love the mornings are all people who are retired, which makes such a key difference. I could come to love the morning hours a lot more if I could wake in my own time, make a cup of coffee, look out the window and think of a day ahead which is all mine to manage.

Think of the bliss of drying your hair in peace, of not having to commute in rush hour and of not having to organise other family members in addition to trying to sort your own sleepy brain out.

Our morning routine has changed again now that our daughter is at school and when we were trying to get into the swing of things this week, it didn’t go well.

First of all, my husband – yes, the man of the house – spent a ridiculous 20 minutes hogging the only bathroom, preventing the woman of the house from being able to get showered in time for her to leave for work.

He also failed to commence the waking procedure for the youngest member of the household. You know the sort of thing – open the door, the curtains and the window and make a bit of noise indicating that the time to get going has arrived.

Oh, I remember the good old days of my dad entering my room each morning, making noise, letting cold air in and trying his best to rouse a teenage daughter without starting a fight.

We did have a particularly disastrous morning this week when we were still getting into the swing of things. Just as our daughter was all dressed in her uniform and ready to go, her father (he denies it but he did it) knocked a glass of apple juice all over her and the fabric sofa cushions.

There wasn’t time to shout at him – lucky him – or for me to have a fit, so instead I motored up the stairs and grabbed a new polo shirt, jumper and skirt for her to put on, thanking the heavens that I’d left it all organised and that we weren’t in a situation where there were no spares to wear.

That really would have been a complete disaster.