It's 7.45am - the summer holidays. I'm looking after my children, five-year-old Lucy and three-year-old Alex. I have two main problems. I am outnumbered and it is raining outside. A quick look at the weather forecast confirms that heavy and frequent showers will merge into a continuous downpour.
I call my mother. "How do you feel about the Natural History Museum today? I bet no one else has had that idea." She swallows hard and agrees to come with us.
Meanwhile, Lucy and Alex have started a game which involves arranging all the dining room chairs horizontally, covering them with bath towels, and imagining they are rabbits in a complex system of tunnels.
You have to admire their ingenuity, not only in organising the construction but in cramming every single toy that they possess inside.
As I try to put a few essentials in a bag, Lucy and Alex perform a dance which involves wearing knickers on their heads and spinning around in circles. To ensure they have made the correct knickers selection, they have emptied every item of underwear on to the bedroom floor. It is 8.42am.
While I attempt to clear up, I put on the SpongeBob SquarePants DVD. Lucy watches while Alex practises his rugby tackling on her. I break up the fight. "If you two are naughty we won't go to the dinosaur museum," I announce.
"I don't want to go. I want to watch Fireman Sam," says Alex.
"Well, we're going to the dinosaur museum and that's that," I say, fairly sure that they have not noticed the slight parental inconsistency.
"I thought you said we couldn't go if we were naughty," says Lucy.
"Well, we won't go again if you're naughty."
"Oh, ok, but can we still go to Legoland?" she asks.
An hour later we are on the Piccadilly Line. We arrive at the Natural History Museum - there is a 100-yard queue just to get in. The showers have ceased. They have been replaced by a downpour of biblical proportions.
Inside the museum there is a 15-minute queue for the cloakroom. Finally we are ready for the dinosaurs, which are handily placed on the opposite side of the museum. When we arrive, we discover we are not alone. Every child in London is waiting to see the T-Rex. The queue is estimated to be one hour. "How about looking at the creepy crawlies?" I suggest hopefully. Lucy collapses in tears. Alex is hungry.
The café is overrun. We grab an egg sandwich for Alex and pizza for Lucy. "I just want crisps," says Alex. Lucy agrees. They have crisps for lunch. I have pizza and an egg sandwich.
Back to the dinosaurs. We have queued for half an hour. "I need the toilet, says Alex. By the time Alex and I return, my mother and Lucy have disappeared. We join the back of the queue. Alex says he is tired. I carry him for one hour until we reach the T-Rex. "Scary isn't it?" I say to Alex. "I would not be scared," says Alex. "I would fight him and put down poisons and throw bricks at him." I feel sorry for the dinosaur.
Afterwards, having miraculously found Lucy and my mother, we take a look at the blue whale, which, says Lucy, is big enough to hold "a zillion people". Then we give the children an ice-cream each to drip over their clothes, and walk through the downpour to the Tube.
Later that evening, I get the children ready for bed. "So what was your favourite part of the day, Lucy?" I ask.
"That's easy, it was the ice-cream," she replies.
"What was your favourite bit, Daddy?"
I ponder. "You know what? I think mine was the ice-cream too."