I have been awake since 5.30. I was rudely awoken by the 3 year old who crawled into bed and clamped his cold feet to my toasty warm body. I was momentarily bitter, well, for a few moments actually.

I read Snow White & the Seven Dwarves 14 times. The 3 year old is particularly taken by the evil queen who he refers to as the ‘nice fairy’.

I have drunk three cups of tea, it is only 7am.

I start breakfast proceedings. The 4 year old appears all sleepy, but instantly bossy. I ask them what they want; Cheerios for the 4 year old, Boulders and Crispies for the 3 year old. He’s a cereal mixer just like Gramps and Mummy.

After breakfast I bung some washing in the dryer and put a new load in the washer. The never ending cycle. I constantly have two baskets of ironing on standby. Standing by for a time when I have three days spare to do the lot in one go. Never. Gonna. Happen.

The children are playing one of their chase, growl and laugh, chase, growl and cry games together.

I tell them I’m going to get ready for work; No playing with knives, ringing Australia on my mobile or ordering porn on Sky. I’m joking right?

All is well. I am able to shower, get dressed, apply make-up and, shock horror, brush my hair. I worry that my work colleagues may not recognise me if I am not sporting my ‘dragged through a hedge’ look.

I come back downstairs and busy myself with packing my handbag with enough sugary snacks to last till lunchtime. I can hear the children playing. This is a good sign. Silence is bad, screaming is bad, good old chuntering and playing is excellent. The only problem being I can’t locate them!

I follow their hushed tones to the downstairs toilet. I panic a little, my heart isn’t ready for another episode of poo clearing, wee on the wall or a towel induced sink flood or … well they could be up to anything to be fair.

I open the door anxiously to find, in a room the size of an average toilet cubicle, the 3 year old, a pillow, a drum, some plastic food, a small suitcase and the 4 year olds duvet which is … moving.

I remove the duvet to find the dog, a rather large Labrador, who looks at me with pleading eyes. If she could speak she would be screaming ‘PLEASE TAKE ME AWAY FROM THESE PEOPLE’.

After a discussion about toilets and bedding not mixing, the dog liking her own space and the perils of playing games in the vicinity of the toilet bowl I go to work …

… for a rest.

Grandpa started the day by venturing downstairs foolishly thinking it was later than it was and was met by the 2 year old who recruited him for some early morning cutting, drawing, tent making and channel surfing. When I rescued him at 8am Grandpa proudly told me that he had given the 2 year old some juice and had worked out how to turn the TV on. This boded well for his childcare duties during the rest of the day.

I went to work at 9.45 and returned to an empty house at 3.15. Fifteen minutes later a cold and tired looking Grandpa followed by two cold but remarkably perky children arrived home. Grandpa had been busy. He had taken them ‘rock jumping’ this morning (loosely translated = dog walking near some rocks which the children hurl themselves off). They came home for lunch, then ventured out again to Salts Mill (arty shops and a very nice café – full of yummy mummy’s – as a friend points out “I feel really skanky when I go there”) which is down a very steep hill from our house and has a lovely bookshop.

Grandpa told the children they could have a book each. The 2 year old gathered several books and formed a tower whilst the 4 year old and Grandpa found a book from which you can construct ’29 beautiful paper butterflies and display them on models representing three different habitats’ – what was he thinking? On further examination you require a pair of scissors fit for the Borrowers, a glue stick the size of a pen lid, a stiff drink and the patience of a saint. When he comes to stay again he will spend most of his time creating 29 beautiful paper butterflies. He must reap what he sowed.

The 2 year old was forced to whittle his pile of 30 books down to one and picked a book on Diggers (no glue stick required). They went to a café, ate biscuits and drank Ribena (one of the things which makes the 4 year old hyper). On the way home they had a trip to a playground, fed the ducks and rather aggressive swan. The 2 year old nearly fell into the canal twice. It was OK though because Grandpa had a backup plan. If he had to dive in he would leave his mobile phone on the side in case he had to ring my husband to come and get them. I think an ambulance may be more appropriate in temperatures of 0°C.

The last part of his journey was a steep hill home which I usually avoid at all cost due to the whine factor and because it usually ends in me carrying one child, shouting at the other for walking at the speed of a snail and nearly having a heart attack at the top. So when he arrived home he was rather stressed and tired.

By 5.30pm he had started on the wine and by 6.30 had single handed finished a bottle and was moving on to the next (he doesn’t normally drink much). Auntie K, big boy cousin and big girl cousin arrived for tea and we all sat down to eat. Grandpa by this point was discussing the finer points of cheap supermarkets and kept shouting “LIDL” in a German accent which somehow then moved on to him shouting “vichyssoise” in a French accent (French translation = cold potato leek soup) … which then within 5 minutes moved on to him shouting “MERDE” (no translation required).

Grandpa decided to put himself forward to be thrashed by the 4 year old at ‘Hop and Pop’ (Asda’s cheapo version of Frustration). He then collapsed on the sofa with some water and biscuits to watch a light documentary called ‘The Yamato’ about was a battleship of the Imperial japanese Navy durin World War II which was sent on a suicidal mission against more than 1000 US ships off Okinawa. This triggered him to speak in a Japanese accent for the duration of the documentary, but there was no further swearing.

As I was washing up tonight I came across the almost empty beaker that the 2 year old had been drinking from this morning with Grandpa. In the bottom was thick liquid. He hadn’t diluted the juice … just given it neat.

He never ceases to amaze me. Last year during a visit we were in a busy bookshop when the 4 year old decided to satisfy her hunger with a banana. I was holding the 2 year old and several books so told her to go and ask Grandpa to do it. Across a packed bookshop he shouted “I don’t know how to peel a banana”. The shop fell silent as people stopped and stared at this man in his late fifties who was unable to assist his grandchild with a simple fruit based act.

When asked what she did during the holidays I hope the 4 year old doesn’t tell her teacher that Grandpa is ‘merde’ at Hop and Pop.

Once I regained my sight we were up and off on our day out to Bradford Industrial Museum. We have been here many times before. It sounds terribly boring but we can quite easily string it out for a few hours and most importantly it’s free. The kids love the machines, vintage cars, bikes, buses and trains. During term time we often have the place to ourselves and the eager to please staff put the machines on for the children to watch.

I had agreed with my teacher friend, mother of three to set off at 10.45 so we would arrive at 11.00. Knowing her well I set off late. As I drove past her house at 11.05 she was still folding her children into the car. It turns out she’d started packing the car at 10.20 but a series of events including a down the leg poo caused delay.

Today there was an exhibition at the museum. Bradford Model Engineers Society, Centenary Exhibition to be exact which was a ‘magnificent display of over a hundred models made by members past and present’. Old men sporting large rimmed jam jar bottom glasses chatted amongst themselves and pointed enthusiastically at large notices saying ‘DO NOT TOUCH’. Why they chose half term to have this exhibition is beyond me, the 30 or so models were all but waving and shouting ‘touch me’ with their buttons, switches and flaps. It was all too much for my octopus armed children. I had visions of a boat creation which took six years to painstakingly construct out of matchsticks and a pair of tweezers laying on the floor in a million pieces.

We quickly moved on to the transport section which has a rope which you are not to go beyond. I decided to tell my children that if they went past the rope an alarm would sound and we would get into trouble. We decided to count the cars, I turned to speak to the 4 year old and suddenly a loud alarm went off. I turned back to find the 2 year old standing on the other side of the rope three steps from a Penny Farthing grinning right at me like a demon. Moving swiftly on once more we managed a fairly civilised lunch (as civilised as it gets with five children aged 4 and under) before moving upstairs to the textile floor.

Because my teacher friend, mother of three has a pushchair we have to go upstairs in an industrial lift which can only be operated by a museum employee. From our many visits before I know the drill; find someone wearing a badge and ask them to escort us up and then agree a time for them to come back to collect us. The woman who took us up agreed to come back for us 15 minutes later. The boys ran round and round the textile machines whilst my friend discussed the finer points of child labour with the 4 year old girls and told them how grateful they should be that they don’t have to crawl around, risking death and disfigurement to collect fluff from under machines (no doubt a conversation which will come back to haunt me some time over the next few days due to the 4 year olds obsession with death).

After 25 minutes we realised that the lift lady had forgotten about us. After 30 minutes, ten rounds of ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ and a dancing show by the 4 year olds, we realised we were trapped with a party of people escorted by an NHS worker and five restless children on the textiles floor. The NHS worker rapidly moved his group to another room when one of them muttered something about the children running around making noise in a disparaging manner. It was then that I realised that these people were probably on a day trip with their mental health worker and five unruly children could have pushed them over the edge. Who knows what damage a schizophrenic could have inflicted on our children with an 18th century bobbin. I went down the mill stairs to seek out the lift operator who had vanished. Another kindly worker released us 5 minutes later.

We went back to teacher friend, mother of three’s house for play followed by some phonics for the girls, train tracking for the boys, bun baking, drawing, CBeebies, bun decorating and fishfinger tea. A plethora of activity which is common practice when we visit; anything less and my friend would feel that she hadn’t satisfied our every need. She is Wonder Woman. When visiting our house her standards are lowered, they would be lucky to find a doll with all its limbs, let alone a paintbrush or enough fishfingers for five.

We returned home tired and happy. The children have gone to bed without argument but with several yawns. On putting their clothes in the wash basket I found that the kleptomaniac had struck again. Concealed in the 2 year olds jumper pocket was a £50p rainbow coloured Industrial Museum rubber … I’m just glad it wasn’t a Penny Farthing pedal.

After lunch we visited my oldest friend C. We have known each other for a grand total of 26 years which makes me feel old. I don’t see her nearly as much as I should. The children all played and ate custard whilst we discussed our children’s bizarre rituals. Her 4 month old daughter will only sleep with something over her face. I think it’s normally a muslin but anything will do, in this instance a tea towel was providing the curtain of sleep. Whilst there C managed to breastfeed her daughter and carry her 2 year old son on her back. I like a bit of mummy multitasking – I have nothing but admiration for my friend.

We came home after our visit and I decided to start being more of the wife my husband would like. Unfortunately I am unable to suddenly morph into Andrea Corr so instead I have managed to keep the house tidy for 2 weeks (something of an achievement for me). I have reacquainted myself with a duster and some bathroom cleaner. At times I am a little OCD about the whole straightening of the duvet thing but on the whole I feel I have achieved something. I decided to try and earn some ‘Delia’ and ‘thinking ahead’ points by marinating some ingredients for tomorrow night’s curry. The 2 year old ‘helped’ by splattering chopped tomatoes over the worktop and up the wall. The 4 year old drew more pictures of me with an abnormally large head and what looks like Lego hair. I am always smiling in these pictures and wearing a stripy jumper. Not sure what a psychologist would make of it. She broke off when I started grating an onion to explain the perils of onions to the 2 year old who then ran away and hid to preserve his eyes.

All in all a good day marred only by the 4 year olds tantrum on the way to bed, which paved the way for an early bedtime and by me sticking my finger in my eye after chopping chillis – so not bad at all really apart from the stabbing pain in my left eye.

I have started sneezing which I think may be caused by my allergy to cats – the Siamese one in particular. A stray hair must have transferred from the 2 year olds undercarriage and brushed past my nose.