It's so close now. Just a few more days until the school year wraps up and the summer holidays begin. No more rushing around the house every morning trying to get the children dressed, fed and out by 8.15. No more barking orders in the naive belief that they might actually be listening to a word I'm saying.

No more planning things with military precision as I march them from one after-school programme to another. "Now we have exactly nine minutes to rest at home before we have to set off again for the swimming pool. So please keep your shoes on! And that means you, Freya."

No more figuring out what day of the week it is from the various activities that fill them: swimming lessons on Monday, choir on Tuesday, French Club and Brownies on Wednesday, Rainbows on Thursday, piano lessons and Beavers on Friday, ballet on Saturday. And me desperately wondering why I was so eager to have children on Sundays.

Yes, the summer holiday will soon be here. A languid series of unscripted days stretching forth like an undulating wave for the next six glorious weeks.

A time almost certain to be filled with such pleasurable sounds like my eldest whining 'I'm sooo bored I can't stand it.'

The endless days of screaming, jumping and crying children. Wall-to-wall children. Underfoot children. Children who show how limp the term 'sibling rivalry' really is. At least in my household, because 'siblings about to murder each another because they can't agree on whose turn it is to hand me the mail,' somehow seems a little closer to the truth.

And it's not as if I really want any of them to have the satisfaction of being the 'one' to thrust the inevitable pile of bills into my hand. Bills that I would rather pretend didn't exist - instead of having to chirp 'oh what a wonderful little helper I have.'

And when those people come to the door selling 'really useful household products' - I'm not going to be able to scratch my beard, shrug my shoulders and kindly tell them my wife takes care of the shopping.

Not when I'm certain to be outed as a liar by one of my three little waifs.

"What do you mean we have everything we need Daddy, we don't have any feather dusters. And I wish Mummy would do the shopping instead of you, because she'd get better treats."

Of course, there is an upside. When that market researcher shows up at my door, I'm going to see them for what they are - adult company - and welcome them in with open arms.

At least it'll be my chance to drive another person crazy.

"If a general election were held tomorrow, how would you vote?' they'd innocently ask. Expecting a simple answer.

"Now let me think about that one for a moment,' I'd thoughtfully reply.

"I'm not too keen on Wild Bill Hague and his latest Toy Boy, Michael Portillo. On the other hand, I'd have to weigh them against Tony's Cronies spinning the night away.

"Then there's the Lib-Dem leader Charles Kennedy. I think I preferred him more when he was on those Radio 4 comedy shows. At least he made me smile back then, instead of making my face sag downwards as he talks about the dire state of the NHS.

"And those Greens, sometimes their antics are enough to turn me blue. Of course, by that I don't mean Tory blue. It was just a figure of speech. At least I think.

"Now what was that question again?"