Somewhat alarmingly, I’ve just realised what might possibly be my very favourite vice.

And it’s not the luxury of online shopping for shoes to litter the house with nor my addiction to false nails.

It’s not even eating a tub of chargrilled artichokes sideways or listening to a song twelve times in a row when there’s no-one around to complain.

It’s sleep.

I have to clarify here – I’m not talking about the times I just drop off unexpectedly.

In fact I drop off unexpectedly so often it’s now deemed inevitable by those who know and put up with me.

And we’re talking mid-film, mid-theatre experience and from time to time even mid-conversation here: let’s face it, some people are duller than the murkiest of ditch water on a moonless night.

And there’s never any point relying on me to navigate on a long journey unless the route happens to be tattooed upon my inner eyelids.

(At this point it may be a relief to everyone to know that the only vehicle I’m ever in control of – well, after a fashion – is a supermarket trolley).

I don’t relish this trait. It’s so frustrating I even get on my own nerves and I have yet to see a film from start to finish in one viewing.

I’m not talking about the regular habit of toddling off to bed of an evening either.

Nope, I am talking about the luxury of sending myself to bed for a damn good sleep at totally random times – such as an hour after I get up on a Saturday morning or ten minutes after I get home from work – just because I can.

It may not seem particularly glamorous but I find it gloriously and utterly decadent. It’s heavenly.

I think this all stems from my long years of sleep deprivation.

Pre-motherhood, I thought that meant those occasional nights when you find it impossible to sleep.

Hours spent restlessly tossing and turning until, of course, exactly 10 minutes before you have to get up you suddenly find yourself capable of slipping into a mini coma.

Of course I went onto discover that it’s actually when every single bone, cell and pore of your body is desperately screaming for sleep – when you could drop off standing up in a blizzard of locusts with a ghetto blaster strapped to your ear – but your little bundle of joy is having none of it.

Having teenagers that can do everything for themselves, apart from finding any of their possessions, means I can now sleep when I want (actually, correction, work’s not too keen).

How much more middle-aged can you get?

For years I’ve marvelled at the goods on offer in those little magazines that fall out of newspapers – giant slippers, elasticated waists, slip-on shoes and money belts with built in rain bonnets.

I’m realising that I may now just one short step away from ordering them.

And that’s probably a really scary thought... but I’ll sleep on it.