LAST WEEK, in a fascinating experiment, a psychologist assembled 59 volunteers — all of them mothers — in a room. He settled each into an armchair with a Santa hat, mince pie and four glasses of sherry, for which, he noted afterwards, they seemed inordinately grateful.

NATASHA GALSTAUN, a 43-year-old former interior designer turned stay-at-home mum, stated in a weekend broadsheet recently that, “running a home is just like running a multi-national”.

AT HOME, 8pm, and I am sitting by the fire when the land-line rings.

IT’S 11pm and I am in bed, specs on, book in hand.

SATURDAY NIGHT, and I’m on the sofa, whiling away the evening with a book, jar of lime pickle, lump of cheddar and my own company.

AS WELL as being the most ear-pricking word I’ve ever heard, the Swedish word “Fartlek”.

I’M WALKING along a Cornish cliff-path. My brother, whose idea this was, is striding on legs as strong as Scottish cabers, half a field ahead.

SUNDAY, 10.30am. I’m standing in a café doorway, looking for my husband and his cycling companion.

I’M ON my way back to London from Suffolk with two old nursing friends.

IT’S 8am. I open my eyes to find a pair of perky brown irises staring into mine, a couple of inches from my own.