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So I've been away for a few weeks. Three to be precise, well three weeks and two days if we're absolutely honest about it.

On the way home I started wondering about what state I would find the house/children/dog/husband. Luckily the grannies had swung into action and there wasn't so much as a tea-towel in the wash basket.

The cutlery drawer had also been cleaned out - this usually falls under the "life's too short" list of things to do, but now that I see it in its pristine state it's likely to stay that way.

But while the house was clean, the children were less so. And so began the quiet interrogation about how many baths they'd had while mummy had been away.

There was lots of head scratching and casting back of minds. "I think we had one the first week..." Ah well a good steeping and all would be right with the world again.

The dog, my wee 13 year old Scottish terrier, alas had not fared so well. Desperately ill when I left, the wee man went to the vets for the last time and didn't come home again. My poor husband had to take him, spend those last moments with him, and all the while try and keep it from me until I got home.

A pity then, that the email he sent out to family and friends asking them not to make the news of Hamish' demise public, was also sent to me while I was away.

But now it's the husband's turn for some R & R - away with the boys for four days. And despite all my great intentions, the house looks like a bomb has hit it.

The kids are clean, but my bedroom come 8.30pm is like a refugee camp, with wee sleeping bodies seemingly everywhere. We'll enjoy this relaxed pace until daddy comes home, then it'll be business as usual.

Maybe.