Keep up, we're going to Brighton for a day trip

9AM '” Highgate.

This is miraculous.

Last night I said "EVERYONE up at eight! We are LEAVING at nine."

Indeed, I believe I barked it, or at least I produced the growly, yappy sound I always imagined they mean when sergeant majors "bark" things in books.

Never for a second did I imagine that this morning everyone WOULD be up at eight, or that we would ACTUALLY be up at nine, it was merely a self-defence tactic, so that when everybody rises at midday, takes three hours debating the blistering effects of various footwear, gets lost in the toilets at Victoria and then complains when we get to Brighton just as the whole city is closing, I would have some comeback.

But, by George, I'll be blowed, and knock me down with a three-foot inflatable crocodile, we are up at eight and leaving at nine.

It seems where trips to the seaside are concerned, I have authority I didn't know about.

Where normally my attempts at proactive leadership are met with the sort of looks they gave Lucinda on The Apprentice, and are still giving Boris Johnson (it's a blonde discrimination thing), today I have the power.

I intend to carefully ration everybody's fun so that they don't use it all up playing I-spy on the train, and I have packed a bag of exciting sandwiches to keep us going until lunch.

They provide an interesting snapshot of our fridge contents, containing respectively peanut butter, pesto, and Indian lime pickle. I am a brilliant mother/Scout master and everyone should be grateful.

10.20 am '” Victoria

Nobody is grateful.

Everyone has taken off to M&S in search of better sandwiches, and my heels have blistered just from the tube journey.

The train leaves in seven minutes, Vlora is still in the loos battling with the remains of the food poisoning she picked up in Spain last week, and I think everyone else is hiding just to toy with my blood pressure.

We won't get good seats.