When I was a child the Summer Holidays always seemed far too short. They were a quiet lull in activities that passed in the blink of an eye, before I found myself sadly thrust back into the classroom.

However, now that I'm an adult, now that I am experiencing them from the perspective of someone taking care of three young children, they seem to go on and on forever.

One unrelenting day after another of kids. Kids laughing, fighting, pouting and shouting, as they slowly wear me down with their endless demands and casual disregard for even the most basic elements of personal hygiene.

Even the term holiday is a misnomer. At least for those of us who have been cast into the role of the summer servant, because it's certainly no holiday for us.

Feeding an endless succession of whining children who claim that they are so hungry they're about to faint. Though not quite hungry enough to settle for a salad or something nutritious.

And then there's the fact that I'm only supposed to have three children. I even have the official documents to prove it. Yet if I had to estimate their numbers based on the amount of rubbish they produce, I'd think that there was a large gang of them. One so efficient in spreading chaos and mayhem, that they can turn a clean room into a hovel in less time than it takes for me to butter a piece of toast.

I'm not even quite sure how they've managed to do it, but watching television is no longer a spectator sport in my household.

Instead, it involves loud active participation. One that requires a constant series of thumps, shrieks and wails. And one that is so physically demanding that it seems to effortlessly burn up the calories. Thus requiring a diet that is high in chocolate, crisps and biscuits, merely to sustain it.

And the absence of a school uniform has led to two opposite extremes. My oldest daughter, Tara, is so enthralled with certain items of her clothing that she'll happily wear them for days on end. Growing completely oblivious to the spots and stains that have been steadily accumulating on them as a result of her less than stellar dining habits.

My youngest daughter, Freya, however, seems to think that she must be on some eternal catwalk in Paris or Milan, because she takes great pleasure in changing her entire outfit every time I turn my back.

Wearing a nice green floral frock one moment, followed by some blue trousers and a white shirt, which is in turn replaced by a black skirt and a skimpy blue top - until I'm so confused that I no longer know which ones really belong in the dirty clothes hamper at the end of the day.

Thereby insuring that she personally accounts for at least half of our weekly washing.

Then there are the games they play. The worst being 'let's goad Daddy and see how long it takes for him to start screaming like a madman'.

And I'm still not even sure why they love playing hide-and-seek. Especially when they do it in a single room where there are only five places they can really hide.

Fortunately, someone must be have been listening to my prayers last year, because this summer's York Playspace programme has been expanded.

This means that for two hours a day, five days a week, I don't have to cower away in the kitchen as I wait for one of my children to inevitably bleat: 'Dad?'

'Dad, can I have something to eat?'

'Dad, I'm bored, what can I do?'

'Dad, do you really want me to go and jump in a lake?'