There are many times when I am glad to be a freelance writer. The days when I can sneak out of my office for a swift cuddle with the twins, the mornings I can spend wandering up to school and discussing, life, the universe and Star Wars with my boy, the odd occasion when I can play hooky and have coffee with my boys after school, but then there are days like today when I wish that I was either a proper mummy or a proper employee.
Trouble is Bank Holidays don't really register when you are self employed so when I got a commission late yesterday to write something for Tuesday I said yes without a second thought, not realising that the rest of the world was already in holiday mode and getting anyone to comment would be like finding a stiff whisky in a temperance meeting.
Though perhaps this is better than those people who vaguely say they will call when they can, for which read the phone will ring when you are up to your ears in changing a nappy, burning the pizza, refereeing a screaming match or saving a child from almost certain death.
There have been many times when I have answered the phone to a very important interviewee or editor whist dangling a baby coated in poo from his ankles, then there have been the times when the Xbox has had to step in swiftly to play the role of nanny to keep the boys quiet while I rush upstairs to my office and put on my professional voice. there was the awful time when my firstborn rolled off the bed in seconds when I'd turned my back to listen to a phone call from a PR. Oh the shame.
You see us freelancers are like a hybrid between working and stay at home mums. The perks can be good, but when the going gets tough and you have to combine being a mum with some semblance of professionalism, the cracks soon begin to yawn. Today I find myself standing on a rumbling San Andreas fault line, anxiously waiting for that emminent professor to call when I am in the middle of wiping a particularly ripe bottom.