A handful of beers, a couple of cuppas, as the TV blares I find myself busting for a wee. Absolutely busting, bladder like a Zeppelin, exquisite discomfort, what have I done? The eternal dilemma, upstairs or downstairs loo? Clatter all the way upstairs and grapple with stair gates, or gamble on the apparent convenience of the downstairs loo (we use it as a cloakroom and a place to stash anything that is a nuisance, which could potentially include small yappy dogs)?

I open the door slowly, fearing an avalanche, and carefully move the buggy out of the doorway. I shift the hoover and wriggle between the coats, inching painfully towards the porcelain and expertly manoeuvre into position. The baby’s car seat is on the toilet, which is rather unhelpful and most inconsiderate. I crouch down and lift the toilet seat, the angled ceiling only allows me to lift it a couple of inches. No worries, I think, a couple of inches gives me plenty of room.

Hunched on the floor like a crumpled ball of paper. Left hand supporting the weight of the car seat, right hand pointing and aiming through the gap. Blimey this is dangerous, I think, and wince uncomfortably. The hoover is boring a hole in my shin, the sink is digging into my back, coats are falling all around me, the end of the world is definitely nigh.

For a brief moment I regret everything. Coats, mops and umbrellas collapsing all around me, left wrist straining under the weight of the car seat (shut yer cakehole critics, it was a difficult angle), pain shooting through my shin and up my back, my life flashing before my eyes…