We’ve just stayed in a wonderful cottage in glorious Devonshire countryside. As I added my ten pence worth to the visitors’ book, I wondered if I should write what I really thought. How I’m fed up of constantly worrying about the kids, scared of them falling into the water and drowing, falling out of the window and breaking their necks or burning themselves in the fire. How I am sick of the sound of me nagging them not to jump on the sofas, walk mud into the house, pour apple juice over the rugs, pull the curtains off the rails or any number of crimes against beautifully restored interiors. How I wish I could for once just relax and kick back the traces, not fret about what ifs and worry away the days. But instead I open the book and wax lyrical about the surroundings (not bemoaning the multiude of death traps within a ten yard radius) and crap on about magic and relaxing (not mentioning all the yelling and moaning). Still it would be a shame to be the only mum out of the hundreds in the book who was miserable wouldn’t it?