Still silence from down the hill and over the fence. The ladders lie forlornly across the floor, an aluminium reminder of yet another chore I should be performing today.

This morning, I made the ultimate 'faux pas', forfeitting any chance of spending a relatively calm and fruitful day: I shouted at my children in the last, stressful minutes between brushing teeth after breakfast and getting out of the door, late - as usual - for school. I believe the little one even got a smack on his bottom because I lost my temper.

Now I shall be able to spend the rest of the day in the company of Mr Guilt, a large, burly creature who comes to visit fairly regularly; it is fond enough of me to squeeze my chest painfully for hours on end, whilst whispering a list of all the nasty instances of poor behaviour on my part, in case I might forget the reasons of his long stay.

It is ironic that I should demand self-control from my children when mine is such a poor show. Having isolated the causes of stress and the moments in the day when they are likely to occur, I should be able to deal with the situation in a grown-up, collected and sensible way. However, my boys have the unconquerable ability to make me flip like a pancake in the hands of an experienced cook. I can cope with the messing around, just, but when that also involves staining with felt pens the squeaky clean white uniform tops I had washed and ironed the previous night, I am afraid that my thin patience dissolves in seconds - which is not true of those stains.

Mr Guilt points out that children should be allowed to be messy, every now and then, and that a boy who is concerned about keeping his top clean may not be entirely normal. I should, therefore, take it all in my stride and get on with my stain-ridden life.

It is not that simple, though, is it? Once, a highly paid job and power suits gave my life a clear definition of values and overall meaning; being in control was relatively easy, apart from the occasional encounter with Mr Bastard, whose function was to remind me that happiness is a hazy, much hyped concept.

Nowadays, the significance I attach to my life is a much more fluid idea, involving running this decadent, crumbling old farmhouse - a hundred miles away from Harvey Nicks and skinny lattes - tending to the vegetable patch and trying to keep under control the endless tentacles sprouting from everywhere in the garden: a modern Hydra with the mythical ever-growing heads vs. me, the novel Hercules. Then there is the soul-destroying, bone-dry book-keeping for my husband's business; being in charge of its PR; teaching the occasional cookery class; and, of course, being the builder of my boys' childhood memories, complete with the eighteen-year-long course in 'making myself, the mother, redundant'.

Now, let me see: Mr Guilt, today's visitor, is pointing out that smacking a child's bottom is not exactly another notch to the post of unforgettable childhood memories - well, it may be, but in the wrong way, of course.

I have also just jotted down a menu for the next cookery class, involving game and liver, before realising that one of the students is a vegetarian.

Finally, if I listen very carefully, I can hear some giggling in the garden: it's the weeds, happily strangling all the plants, flowers and commestible items; Mr Guilt reckons that I should be able to be on top of things, by now. I agree wholeheartedly, and hang my head in shame.

Mr Guilt has not even started on Mr Vroom, of course. In order to be granted a reprieve, I should be able to go through the day weeding vigourously and effectively, going about my household chores quickly and cheerfully, finding the time to bake perfect biscuits with my happy children covered in stains and kisses, whilst at all times avoiding over-eating/over-exercising and thinking of wearing short skirts on tall ladders.

Well, if Mr Vroom turns up at the door offering his services, I might have to gag Mr Guilt and lock it in a dusty cupboard.