Any free moment to get stuff done when you have kids is totally precious.
The things I can get done in ten minutes now, would probably have taken me a good two hours, pre-Nancy.
The panic takes over.
The realisation that if you don't hang out the washing in the short time when she's having a nap, it will sit in the washing machine for another couple of days, until it starts to smell like the boy at primary school that no-one wanted to partner up with for country dancing classes. For example.
So when Nancy's grandparents came down for a couple of days, it was like, woohoo, let's sort out EVERYTHING.
Which was a tad ambitious.
I now realise that:
a) you can't set up a website in a morning, unless you want it to look like you're selling double glazing.
Which I'm not.
b) it's important, no, essential, to listen to the instructions from the woman at the salon before going for a spray tan.
It was the wedding of one of my dearest friends at the weekend.
I've been going on for over six months about doing some exercise to look how I wanted to in my bridesmaid's dress.
And then suddenly it was two days until the big day.
And a bit late to even crank up the Slendertone.
So I thought a bit of colour might do the trick. Especially as I'm so pasty I was a bit worried I was going to look like an uncooked human sausage in my beautiful pale pink dress.
So I made an emergency booking at the treatment rooms a few streets from my flat.
Nancy was hanging off my jeans announcing she'd done a poo, so I only half listened to the list of things the beautician told me to remember to do while on the phone with her.
And the next day, I left Nancy happily playing with Granda and Nana as I rushed to make my appointment.
It was a bit Ghostbusters, the whole experience. Getting into a dome shaped tent while I had fake tan fired at me through what looked like the Proton Pack that Ray used to zap the Marshmallow Man.
But it was when she came back to check on me as I dried myself with an industrial hair dryer, that I realised I'd over looked something.
'Have you not brought anything loose to wear like I said on the phone?'
I told her I hadn't.
'Well you can't put your jeans on,' she said, 'coz it will make your legs go all streaky.'
'And you can't wear your shoes either, have you not brought flip flops like I said?'
'Right, well I don't know what to suggest.'
There was clearly only one solution.
I'd have to walk home, barefoot, in my pants, clutching my jeans and shoes, like some kind of simpleton who'd forgotten how to get dressed.
I don't know what was worse.
The fact I looked like I'd been on holiday to Jamaica.
Or that my nextdoor neighbour who'd said hi whilst washing his car as I'd left the house, was now greeting me sans trousers on the way back in.
So I've made a bit of a promise to myself to do things a bit slower.
Or at least listen a bit harder.
Because I might be getting things done quickly, but Im not sure how productive it is if it means waking the streets half naked to do so.