Life puts brakes on school run

Lots of shouting, sweating, hypertension and running around in no particular direction whatsoever, and all the while the clock is ticking.

It’s no fun for anyone involved.

Trying to put a pair of thick woollen tights on a toddler who doesn’t particularly feel like wearing thick woollen tights that day is like playing snooker with a length of rope.

Honestly, you’d have more success dressing a truculent octopus.

If the school run had a soundtrack it would be performed by Motörhead or Slipknot.

It’s little wonder back in the day that, at my place of work (the newspaper you’re reading now), yours truly had the reputation of having a short fuse and was nicknamed “Huff Daddy” by a room full of giggling, sarcastic journalists.

We actually toyed with naming this column Huff Daddy for a while but it was rejected because I thought it took the Mickey a little bit too much.

But fast forward about 15 years and today’s school run, if you could call it that, in our house would be scored by The Orb or just Fleetwood Mac playing Albatross on a continuous loop.

Daughter #1 drives herself half a mile to work most days and daughter #2’s school run consists of me picking her up from Liverpool on Friday nights after a week at LIPA.

Learning to be an actress is physically demanding (she fell asleep on the bus back to her auntie’s last week) and all she does when she gets back to Lancaster is sleep, watch TV and go dancing at her old performing arts school.

Sorry to rub it in for those trying to get their hot-faced, shrieking little nightmares to pre-school or the childminder’s, but our school run these days is literally a walk in the park.

While you’re running yourself into the ground before screeching off to do a day’s work to pay someone to look after your kids while you go to work, me and our sighthound Walter are strolling around Williamson Park - me doing the strolling, him chasing squirrels up trees.