If the Government were really serious about installing warning labels in appropriate locations, they would immediately insist that all adults stick one up above their beds saying: 'Warning: Having children can seriously affect your mental health.'

And I mean seriously: foggy thoughts, prolonged bouts of amnesia and constant confusion. All leading to the little- known psychiatric disorder called Parental Dementia.

I discovered this the hard way, when I kept on experiencing dj vu over and over again.

Now this wasn't the exotic and other-worldly form of dj vu, but the 'my brain has turned to mush and I keep on forgetting things' kind.

This is because I inevitably find myself doing the same things over and over.

For instance, I'll go into the kitchen to turn the cooker on and I'll see a pair of socks lying on the floor, so I'll pick them up and put them in the dirty clothes hamper at the top of the stairs.

Then I'll remember it's time to start tea and so I'll go back down into the kitchen to turn the cooker on.

However, before I can do that one of the children will ask for a glass of juice. And as I carry it into the front room, I'll see a coat that should be hung up and so I'll take it out to the hooks by the front door and suddenly remember that I have to make tea.

So... I'll go back into the kitchen to turn the cooker on and suddenly have this unmistakable feeling I've tried to do this before.

Then there are the mental lapses: 'Stop doing that Tara, I mean Shaman, I mean Freya,' I'll yell at my youngest child, as I reel through all of the possible names until I hit on the right one.

At least I now know why my mother - a woman normally so mentally sharp that she can remember what clothes I wore on a particular day 40 years ago - always called me by my brother's name.

It wasn't because she secretly wished I were him, at least I don't think so, but because certain neurons in her brain refused to fire in the proper sequence.

My only hope of leading any kind of a normal life occurs after the children have settled down in bed, because this is the only time when I can really sit in the corner and stare bleakly at the wall.

Knowing that my children aren't merely sleeping - they're recharging their batteries so that they can renew their attack on me the following morning.

I have to admit that at this point I'm almost convinced there is a government conspiracy in place to sap all parents of their energy and vitality and turn them into mindless drones, so that they won't cause any social unrest.

No wonder the politicians thought that they could revoke the married couples allowance with impunity - we're all too exhausted to protest.

I'm also convinced that this conspiracy has its tentacles everywhere and that there must be hypnotic messages subliminally embedded in all children's television programmes.

Ones that instruct them to burst awake early in the morning on weekends and holidays, and then turn into sleeping lumps on school days. Forcing me to tickle their toes and resort to the usual forms of torture in order to pry their eyes open.

Torture that at least gives me the illusion that I'm the one in control.

Rather than being the slave who has merely been summoned by the alarm clock to go and waken the masters.

Then make sure that the little lord and ladies are dressed, fed and deposited at the school gates at the appropriate hour.

Just so that I can have the privilege of going back home and cleaning up the brand new mess they've created.