That’s it. I resign.

Now I’ve got what I always wanted, I’ve realised it’s totally OTT hours-wise and commitment-wise and patience-wise.

I want my life back.

NOBODY is recognising what an extraordiarily talented mother-worker I am, what I have to go through each day and that if it wasn’t for me, these children wouldn’t even EXIST.

This job is just too FULL-ON people. I haven’t had a boozy working lunch since 1998 (excluding Christmas day, obvs, but that doesn’t count as it’s the most important day in the parenting calendar when your ability to do the job is constantly monitored and commented on, your failures instantly reflected in the disappointed eyes of your didn’t-get-an-xbox darlings – it is effectively your annual presentation to the board).

And what about my marriage? I had no idea what a strain this whole thing would be on both of us (clarification: mostly me). Gwyneth and I haven’t had a dirty weekend away since 1998 (that was SUCH a good year). Whenever we do manage to escape now, we always get accidently hammered in the first half-hour and then sleep for the remaining 24. Plus you can’t smoke in hotels anymore so the whole decadent, no-kids-let’s-smoke-in-bed-and-drink-champagne vibe is more like him lying in bed watching Match of the Day while I get dressed and take the lift down to reception and outside into the freezing designated smoking area and yes I realise one solution would be to quit the fags but I am BRITISH and must TAKE A STAND against all these pissy EU laws that are entirely designed to spoil my personal idea of debauched fun…

Gwyneth might be a smashing fella, I’m sure I remember him being brill, but all I’m arsed about now is that he puts the bins out, makes the dinner and does NOT comment on the deeply repulsive odour in the house and the immensely sturdy appearance of his wife.

And what about the death-threats? Everyday I am told at least once that I am hated, that I am mean, that I will never be spoken to again and that my death is imminent at the hands of an assault weapon conjured out of 6yr old tiny pointy fingers. All for just doing my job.

Also I am repeatedly informed that I don’t understand anything when in fact the reverse is true. I understand EVERYTHING they tell me about their friends or their hair or their minecraft world or their drawing. I just sometimes forget to pretend to CARE.

I do have another job to do, you know. A proper paid job where this week I am required to be a singing pirate, confidently steering the ship of tunes across the stormy waters of early childhood. Who better to captain that sturdy vessle than a weathered ol’ seadog like me, experienced in the tumultuous waves of baby/toddler-dom?

One mum this morning had to wrestle her two kids back into their pushchair half-way through the session because the eldest (aged 2) NEEDED THE STRIPEY DRUM AND NOT THE TAMBOURINE and the screaming set off her youngest (aged 1) and all of us knew that feeling, had had that day, had felt that shaky, tearful rage that only your kids can manifest in you. Then, this genius-mum remembered that her eldest was wearing new SPARKLY SHOES this morning! And as we all know, wearing new sparkly shoes is the absolute bestest most powerfulest cure for all ills. So sobbing toddler immediately ceased to wail on first sight of the sparkly shoes which made youngest also cease to wail and the whole family sat back down with eldest now hugging her sparkly shoes to her chest while we sang and I thought how genius parents like her are literally SAVING THE WORLD EVERYDAY and whilst I may feel like publicly resigning and being carried wailing and tear-stricken back to my old life where I slept and read books and had sex, I must always remember this crucial life-lesson from today’s toddler-school: most troubles can be overcome simply by the donning of a sparkly shoe…

Unless you’re Nigel Farage, in which case it’s British-made brown sandals and a lifetime of tantrums for you…

LATE NEWSFLASH: In fact it transpires Farage champions not a sad sandal, but a Union Jack emblazoned brogue…you couldn’t make it up, which is why I didn’t…