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I knew it was going to be a bad day when the first thing I did was wee on the cord of my dressing gown. I didn’t realise until I was walking downstairs and wondered what the cold, wet thing slapping against my leg was... “Ah, it’s my dressing gown cord, covered in my own urine.”

I tried to cheer myself up by making a lovely pot of leaf tea, but the lid came off and hot, thick tea, like molten lava, spewed from the top and burnt my hand. 

“What does that word mean mummy?”

I spend too long trying to explain why I shouted BULLOCKS. I’m blagging my way through a story about a time when a cow chased me in a field,  wondering how I will tie it up with swearing at a kettle, when I realise that Thing-two and Thing-three have been in the bathroom for far too long.

I race up (wet, urine soaked dressing gown cord slapping madly against my calf) and find Thing-two desperately trying to poo on the nightdress she has put down the loo before being discovered. Meanwhile Thing-three is tipping my ‘Relaxing’ bath bubbles all over the floor, cheerfully singing “She’ll be coming round the mountains when she comes”.

I go to open the window, unsure whether or not I plan to jump out of it, when I see the seagulls have very kindly pecked open all of my bin bags and the whole street can see I wear panty liners and live off Giant Yorkie chocolate buttons.

I remember that camping trip where my dad coated bread in Tabasco sauce in a revenge attack after a seagull stole his sausage, but then I remember seagulls are protected and I might go to prison. I briefly contemplate how much easier ‘life inside’ would be.

“Get a grip” I tell myself sternly, and then do what all good mothers do when their children are out of control. I open cartons of Capri Sun and packets of Pickled Onion Monster Munch and put on Disney’s Frozen. While they argue over  who is better, Elsa or Honour, I furiously text all my friends about how utterly awful and tragic my life is, ignoring the subliminal messages from my children as they wail “Let it go… let it gooooooo”.

When Frozen is finished I look at the clock and wonder how it’s only 8.37am. The kids demand to go to the beach with their scooters, where the dog does a poo on the beach dogs are not allowed on.

Whilst double-dipping to get more of his sloppy offerings, praying my finger does not go through the thin plastic poo bag, I finally find the sparkly crayon Thing-one and I searched for yesterday.

Is this the silver lining?