THE day shouldn't begin before 7am. It just shouldn't. It's wrong. At 7.01am, I can just about open my eyes without the use of a car jack, but at 6.59am nothing less than a stick of dynamite in each ear will do it.

I readily admit that I am not a morning person. If it was up to me, the day wouldn't begin until shortly before lunch (and shortly after the pubs open), but when you've got kids, a lie-in is about as likely as a hot date with gorgeous George Clooney.

And given a choice between the two, I would probably opt for a lie-in. Sorry George - you win some, you snooze some.

Even though both my kids are relatively good sleepers (touch wood, twirl round and spit three times for luck), they still get up too blummin' early. They go to bed at a reasonable hour, they sleep like comatose logs (nonsense, I know, but you get my drift), but then they insist on getting up at the crack of dawn.

Okay, so perhaps 6.30am is not exactly the crack of dawn, but it feels like it when you are a completely lazy article like myself. And it is not as if they come round from their coma in slow, manageable stages like normal human beings (i.e. adults). Oh no, that would be far too easy for their feeble, sleep deprived mum to cope with.

Instead, the four-year-old comes rushing in, does a triple back-flip somersault on to the bed and immediately launches into a Magnus Magnusson list of bizarre questions such as "what does the back of your eyeball look like?" and "how do blind people know what colour socks they are wearing?". Both of which he asked last Thursday as I desperately tried to shove two over-stuffed pillows into my ears.

The five-month-old uses more subtle but no less effective tactics. She sticks her legs through the bars of her cot, launches her dummy at the wall with a throwing action not unlike a young Fatima Whitbread, and blows very loud and very wet raspberries at her bear, John Smith (named by her bizarre older brother after a beverage of the same name).

Is it any wonder that I feel permanently tired, or that while feeding the little one and reading to the larger one, I have been known to fall asleep mid-sentence?

Sad? Undoubtedly. Cause for concern? Nah, it's all part of being a parent. Or at least that is what I thought until I read that my constant doziness could be turning me into a physical and mental wreck - no change there then, I hear you say - too shattered to work or enjoy leisure time, friendships and sex (I recognise the word, but I can't quite remember what it refers to).

According to Dr David Murfin, spokesman for the Royal College of General Practitioners, constant tiredness is a modern malaise that can lead to a myriad of unpleasant complaints such as high blood pressure, migraines, persistent infections, sudden outbursts of weeping and, as if all that weren't bad enough, chronic flatulence.

The problem is there is always something to do, somewhere to go and someone to talk to. When I was a kid we often had hours and hours at a time when there was nothing to do. It was called Sunday.

The shops were shut, there was nothing on the telly and our friends were all either doing their homework or having their weekly hose down in the bath. We didn't have videos or games consoles to alleviate the boredom. And we certainly didn't have access to mobile phones, as they were then approximately the size of a bungalow and about as expensive.

There was absolutely nothing to do and, to be honest, I think it did us the power of good. We were bored, but we were happy.

Now, however, we rarely have a moment to spare, even for sleep. But I have a plan. Some might even call it cunning. From now on I'm going to stop wasting the precious little time I have reading reports about what precious little time I have. That should save me at least eight hours - or the equivalent of one good night's kip - a month. Which means... zzzZZZ.

Updated: 16:55 Monday, September 22, 2003