Have your cake and eat it (Chicklit contest finalist)

Chapter one

It's 9am on Monday and I'm currently standing in my spacious, open plan kitchen surrounded by piles and piles of laundry that is either dirty, un-ironed, or needs another go in the washer to get rid of that stubborn ketchup stain. I look down at my white shirt, which was once a staple of my corporate wardrobe but is now splattered with Weetabix. What the hell, I think, whipping it off and adding it to the dirty pile. With a sudden burst of energy I flick on the kettle, transfer the clean, damp washing to the dryer and cram as much of the dirty stuff into the washing machine as I can.

I heave the overflowing ironing basket to where the ironing board is set up in the living room, next to Tamsin who is sitting on the rug happily banging plastic bricks against one another. Looking at my little dark haired angel, who is showing no signs of the tantrum she threw at breakfast 90 minutes earlier, I feel a stab of guilt at the fact that instead of sitting down with her and teaching her the alphabet or something I'm about to start on the mammoth task of ironing Steve's shirts.

After two eye-wateringly strong coffees and half an hour of listening to Radio 4, I've ironed precisely three shirts and Tamsin is starting to get grouchy. I decide to abandon the task for now and consult my list of things to do to see if I can't move on to something a bit more stimulating.

I'm rather proud of my to-do list. It's tacked on the fridge next to an unidentifiable greeny-brown splodge painted by Joshua, which could be anything from a small dinosaur to an oak tree. Frankly, it's anyone's guess.

I work best with routine so I've listed all the chores and given each one an allotted time slot. Admittedly, I should have ironed six shirts by now, but if I give the playroom a cursory going over instead of the thorough sorting out I was planning I should be able to recoup some time. I run my finger down the endless list of tasks, debating whether anyone would really notice if I substituted 'dust bookcase shelves' with 'have a bath and wash hair'.

Sod it, I decide. My hair is so greasy I could fry chips with it and so dirty my head is starting to itch. Either that or Tamsin has caught head lice (she has a surprising amount of hair for someone who is not yet two) and transferred them to me when I carried her upstairs to bed last night, her chubby arms around my neck and her baby-scented head on my shoulder.

My mind made up, I do a quick sweep of the kitchen floor for a clean towel and get halfway upstairs to the bathroom before I realize I've forgotten something. Turning on my heel I rush back to the living room to scoop up my daughter, who had thankfully remained oblivious to her mother's momentary absence and just held her arms out obligingly.

I'm thinking of the deep hot bath I'm going to fill and hoping Steve left the bath clean and free of plastic fish after last night (the plastic fish belong to the children, not Steve, obviously), when the sound of the doorbell halts me in my tracks for the second time in as many minutes.

I can see through the stained glass panel in the front door that it's the postman with a parcel, no doubt an early birthday present for Jessica, who will be eight in... shit, in five days. I'd better add 'bake a Disney Princess birthday cake' to my list, which, rather depressingly, is getting longer rather than shorter.

I open the door with a wide smile and freeze in startled confusion as the postman almost drops the parcel in shock. He's averting his gaze and holding his hand over his eyes as if he's trying to avoid looking directly at the sun.

Jesus Christ. I can't look that bad surely? I mean, I know I haven't had much sleep and can't remember the last time I put on some make-up, but am I really that shrivelled and wizened? Perhaps this full-time parenting lark has aged me more quickly than I thought.

I put a hand to my cheek and that's when I realise the postman isn't averting his gaze from my face, but from my chest. I look down and feel the heat creep up my cheeks as it dawns on me that I'm wearing only my bra. And not just any bra – a skimpy, nasty nylon lace affair that is both greying and fraying because every other damn piece of underwear I own is currently sitting on the kitchen floor waiting to be washed.

I make a mortified grab for the parcel while simultaneously performing a complicated juggling act with the towel and Tamsin; which in theory was designed to cover my modesty but in practice almost results in me dropping them both. Slamming the door shut and leaning against it as the postman whistles his way down the garden path - no doubt off to have a tea break and good old snigger with his colleagues at my expense - I try to breathe deeply to steady my beating heart. Oh sweet Jesus. The horror. And was it my imagination, or did he wink at me? Oh god, oh god, oh god. I need a stiff drink.

I hare up the stairs like a woman possessed, adopting a brisk pace that makes Tamsin giggle and only serves to remind me that I had relegated said bra to the do-not-wear pile precisely because of its lack of under-wiring and support.