I’m still trying to work out whether increasing age diminishes the hours in a day or whether the working generation are super achievers at fitting a million things into 24 hours. I don’t ever want to wish time away: every minute of every day matters, but I must admit to some minimal envy when I have conversations with my more elderly patients that go along the lines of: Me: “How has your week been so far?”

Patient: “Well I’ve barely had a chance to catch my breath! Monday I went to Tesco, Tuesday I had to clean my kitchen floor, and today I’ve got this dental appointment.”

I know that these are the same people who, asked the same question 20 years ago, would probably have given a slightly fuller answer. But who is the fool in this situation?

Closer to home, phone calls with both parents and in-laws follow a similar pattern. It’s hard not to bite back that playing bridge three times a week does not justify a hectic schedule and maybe the holidays at bi-weekly intervals might ease this stress. But I guess it’s all relative. This week has been the first full week of the summer holidays and it has been a test of both logistics and organisation. I’m not sure I would have passed on either count.

Rather inconveniently, teachers have a six-week summer break which, for us other working parents, means suddenly all bets are off on the routine front. We are expected to maintain the professional head while paddling madly under the surface to keep the family afloat. Thankfully, my boys are young and impressionable enough that with careful coertion and a £2 back hander, I have persuaded them that getting up earlier to be carted off to summer camp is something they should feel lucky about. Monday morning arrived and three children going in three different directions, armed with various random sporting equipment and rather bizarre packed lunches (made at the 11th hour from an empty fridge) were unceremoniously dumped at the door of my wonderful friend’s house (she’s a stay-at-home mum).

The number 1 rule of the working mum is: if you stupidly live far from your family, make sure you get to know someone who can be a close substitute. My lovely friends are a godsend, though I suspect they may not say the same about me... again, coertion and a £2 back-hander usually work a treat.

The number 2 rule is: favours must always be repaid at the earliest convenience and this will explain how I came to be transporting six tired five-year-olds later in the week, who were doing a good impression of stroppy teenagers with aforementioned bootload of sports equipment, all trying to sing along to Dizzee Rascal’s Dirty Stinkin’ Bass. Especially as it only seems five minutes since I was bouncing them on my knee and singing Twinkle Twinkle lovingly.

By the time I arrive at work, the hard bit of the day is usually ticked off. You may forgive me now for what may have seemed like intolerance for those more time-rich than I. By this stage I am fighting longing for a weekly routine that I could, quite frankly fit into a morning. I’ve learnt to dictate shopping lists into my phone on the drive to work and arrange the social calendars of an entire family in a 15-minute slot when someone cancels an appointment. A tricky root filling in a heavily filled upper molar is a breeze in comparison to arranging a last-minute child’s party in my lunch hour.

The truth is, I had a pretty impressive role model. My own mother worked full-time for most of the time she was raising me and my four siblings. Working mum, school governor, PTA supporter, chief socialiser, all round signer-upper and ability to take on more than seems possible. The signs were there, and I’m morphing into her, but that’s no bad thing. Perhaps I’d better warn my kids I’ll soon be drinking tea out of a flask and travelling with a tartan blanket in the back of the car on my weekly trip to Tesco, laughing smugly as they run around like proverbial blue-bottoms juggling work/family/social life. Of course not; I’ve got three boys — their lives will be much easier!