What did you do with your extra hour?

Lie in bed a bit longer? Sleep off the remains of the hangover? Manage to actually read the papers not just the supplements? Or are you one of the many parents for whom the 'extra' hour is like an extreme form of torture? We may know it's there but our kids sure as hell don't.

I'll tell you what I did.  I was woken at 4.45am by Eliza (5.45 in old money), after several futile attempts to get her to go back to sleep I gave up and brought her downstairs to watch the box (thank you John Logie Baird you are my hero) while I tried to drift off on the sofa. Problem is Eliza's a social child, never been a big fan of her own company.

"Mummy wake up!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm lonely"

"Well I'm tired, it's the middle of the night."

"Please Mummy, I'm cold can I come and sit with you?" (she wasn't cold by the way, she had a blanket and a dressing gown, she's not Oliver Twist).

Now this sounds cute doesn't it? The image of a mummy daughter moment of closeness snuggled up on the sofa watching god knows what crap Nick Jr churns out before 6am (clearly children of the BBC don't wake up before 6am so neither does Cbeebies) is a comforting one.  But it's not like that. She's quite big and we have small sofas. I end up with a foot in my stomach, an elbow digging into my chest and her fluffy, tickly hair up my nose. It's not cute so much as deeply uncomfortable. Any anyway shortly after this Tilly woke up too and then starts the 'who-can-sit-closer-to-mummy competition' which ALWAYS ends in tears.

So I gave up. As I always do in these situations. Now I know why my mother was such an early riser. Years of practice clearly.  She had the right idea though. Don't bother trying to sleep as it will just make you cross and frustrated. Just get over it, get up and start doing the housework. My mother was always doing the housework. My memories of her are of hoovering, ironing, cleaning, drinking coffee, reading the paper  - in that order.  In the summer she was a ferocious gardener and a beautiful sun-bather but she was never far from the hoover.

So by the time most normal people were opening their eyes to the new day, I'd washed my husband's shirts (he's away), sorted out the girls old clothes, handed Eliza's small ones down to Tilly, handed Tilly's small ones to charity and organised their drawers and wardrobes (the worrying thing is this made me happy). I did this with their 'help' which involved much trying on of old clothes.

I then made pancakes for breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, unblocked the shower and did some drawing with the girls. When I looked at my watch it was 8.30am. Holy shit.

We pottered about for a bit more, hanging up the washing to dry, putting more in (I'm like pavlov's dog, give me clothes in a basket and I will wash them and hang them) until it was a respectable time to go out. We drove to a nearby heath for a walk but it had started to drizzle and naturally I've lost the rain cover for the pushchair and anyway the girls were looking very non-plussed about my intrepid idea for a walk.  So we turned back with the intention of going to soft play. At least there's coffee there.

But no sooner had I pulled out than both girls fell asleep.  I'd join them but, you know, I can almost hear that basket of washing calling me and I am but a slave to my master.