It’s been two years, six months and three hours since I last shaved my legs, and the llama-patterned knickers I’m wearing have seen better days.
We have seven minutes before the kids wake up, and my husband shuffles closer. ‘Ouch,’ he says, a piece of Lego sticking into his back.
Then, a light comes on in the landing. Small footsteps creep down the stairs. A little voice screams, ‘IS SOMEONE COMING TO MAKE BREAKFAST?!’