Kayt Turner: 'I phone up some mates and it's the same story. No one is free. It's the school holidays'

THOSE of us who aren't teachers or the partners of hedge fund managers don't have the luxury of seven weeks off during the summer, hence the problem of looking after the precious darlings results in tag-team babysitting involving aunties, uncles, grandparents and godparents, and childcare arrangements of a Byzantine nature.

And so I am abandoned while Mr Turner takes the little troupe off. Initially, I feel a little put out at being left behind while they all go off to have fun. But then I think of the arguments that have undoubtedly already started in the car and I pour myself a large glass of wine and think what a terrible, terrible shame it is that I have to stay and go to work.

I get quite excited as I start to plan what I could get up to while they are all away. Possibly meet a few friends for drinks, dinner – maybe even dancing. I can stretch out on the sofa and read a book. I can watch the news on TV while it's still light. I could even, should I wish, watch EastEnders (Mr Turner won't have it in the house). I can luxuriate in the bath without having shouted conversations through the door as anyone else tries to get in.

As night falls I can have a good night's sleep without the decibel-busting snoring in my ear. I can have the bedroom window open so that the room isn't like an airless box. I can spread myself out like a starfish and head off into the land of nod in a beautifully cool bed. And I won't have to suffer the early bird that I'm married to waking me up at ten past six when he gets up.

I start phoning up some mates and it's the same story from them all. No one is free. It's the school holidays, I'm told. Maybe once they're back at school? Mmmmm. That's okay. I didn't want to go dancing anyway. Actually, I can rarely stay awake long enough to do much of anything after dinner. I'll just indulge myself with some girlie treats.

I reckon I'll start with a glass of fizz. Nothing like lying back in a warm bubble bath with a beautiful glass of something chilled. Well, that would be perfect if I didn't have to spend 40 minutes trying to get the cork out of the bottle. I try the rubber mat thingy that we have for reluctant jar lids. I try pliers. I even run it under a hot tap (I'm sure Madame Clicquot recommended that somewhere). I end up putting it back in the fridge and settling for a warm bottle of beer. (That would be the beer that I took out of the fridge in order to chill the champagne.)

After my bath, I settle down on the couch to watch some TV in peace. Except there's nothing on that I want to watch. EastEnders comes on and I don't recognise anyone. Who are these people? Where did they come from? Then I realise that because I've been watching these strangers, I've missed the news.

I give it all up as a bad job and head for bed. At last something goes right. I put on a nice rich night cream and my moisturising gloves – and bless the absence of any sarky Hilda Ogden comments. The room is lovely and cool, rather than breathless and stuffy. I spread myself out, taking up as much room as I can. And I barely sleep a wink. The noise from the street outside makes me close the window after only an hour. And then I can't get comfy in the middle of the bed. I toss and turn and finally drop off to sleep about five o'clock – only to zing wide awake at ten past six. Missing you already.