SUNDAYS are such a strange day in our household. They feel so unnatural, because it is the one day of the week when we don't have any outside commitments. When I'm not forced to become an expert contortionist as I rush the children off to school, ballet or Beavers - herding them from one activity to the next.

Of course, you'd think that because it really is our one day of rest, that it might take on solemn tones and become something like The Day of Quiet Reflection. A day to piously bond together as a nuclear family. Gathering around the hearth, breaking bread and recounting the tales passed down from one generation to the next.

Unfortunately, a more insidious practice has arisen. One that I could never have foreseen, because Sundays have unofficially become known as The Day of Hunger.

Even though I will admit that I have a degree in Religious Studies and that I know far too much about the Gnostic belief in the expulsion of the Demiurge from the Pleroma than any sane person should really know, this isn't some sort of bizarre religious practice that I have foisted onto my children. One where I have encouraged them to engage in a weekly ritualistic bout of starvation and self-denial (though now that I think about it, this does sound intriguing...).

No, Sunday has taken on this sombre name because I will be pestered at least once every 15 minutes throughout the entire day with the words: "I'm hungry... I'm starving... What can I have to eat... I don't want an apple, I want something chocolatey... they're eating some crisps so why can't I have some... etc?" Until I foolishly find myself wishing that they might suddenly develop a weekly bout of anorexia nervosa.

And instead of sitting around the hearth reminiscing about our venerable ancestors, I usually end up praying by myself upstairs. Though not for protection and forgiveness, but for sanity. And that Sky One will miraculously declare that it is Homer Simpson Day and broadcast back-to-back episodes of this cartoon all day long. So that my children's brains will temporarily turn to mush and I can get a little bit of writing done.

Of course, God never listens. I guess He's got far more important things to do. Especially on a Sunday, when a strong, vocal minority are fervently praying that their team will win.

Then there's the inevitable bickering that arises every half hour, when one television programme ends and three different opinions about what should come on next turns into the inevitable squabbling, shrieks and wails...

Fortunately, I've read about the wisdom of Solomon. And while I'm not going to cut the television in half, I know how to judiciously unite them.

All I do is to give them a common enemy by grabbing the controls, turning on the History Channel and telling them that because they're having such a hard time agreeing on what to watch, then maybe it's time they learned a little bit about the lost treasures of the Early Dynastic Period of the Sumerian Empire.

This has an entirely magical effect. Within seconds their simmering sibling animosities are quickly forgotten as they desperately unite in an attempt to keep this ancient Sumerian stuff off the television screen.

This is quickly followed by proclamations of solidarity and then heartfelt apologies for their nasty behaviour.

'Please Daddy can you change the channel?'

I look into their eyes and see the look of true remorse reflected back at me. It's almost enough to bring tears to my eyes and make me want to reward them for their powers of diplomacy.

Except that I suddenly realise I don't know that much about ancient Sumer and this show is really starting to look interesting.