Not since she was a wee baby has our five-year-old's life been without the weekly routine of nursery and, more latterly, school.

Now, for the next six weeks, she will be in the constant company of either me, my husband or both of us.

We've had to do a fair bit of job-juggling to ensure we've got the childcare covered. And I think it will be great to have our daughter to ourselves for a while.

But when the tears and tantrums become too much, I'm not sure how we'll cope without the intervention of sensible teachers, classroom assistants and after-school club staff.

On the first day of the school holidays, she asks if she is going to school.

"Eve, we have been telling you for the past week that Wednesday would be your last day of term," I say.

"You have been going on about not wanting to go to school for the past two weeks. I'm amazed you forgot this."

"Yay," she screeches, clapping her hands and chasing her toddling brother, Max, around the room. "So what are we doing today, Mummy?"

"Well, I have to work this morning," I begin, "but Daddy will be here. And then I'll come home and take you to the park."

"Yay," she screeches again.

When I come home after my morning's work to relieve my husband, who is himself off to work, he is looking pretty pleased.

"Eve was brilliant all morning," he reports. "She played with her Barbies and we read some books and played in her Wendy house. She has been a real joy."

The handover runs fairly smoothly and my husband waves us goodbye with only a brief whimper from Eve, who wants him to play "just one more" game of Frisbee.

"Not now, sweetheart," he called. "Get Mummy to play with you."

She starts to pull me by my only smart jacket and I trot along quickly to avoid the lining being ripped.

"You've got to play with me, Mummy, because Max is too little and I don't have any friends here."

"But the kitchen is a mess," I say. "I need to have a go at tidying it up before I . . . "

It is too late. I am in the garden leaping across the lawn to catch my daughter's low and lethal throws.

I abandon any attempts to tackle the housework and take Eve and Max to Hove Park for a runaround.

The park is packed with children having runarounds, while parents stand in groups, looking a little shell-shocked.

"It's the same every year," I overhear one mum say.

"First day of school holidays and the kids are like wild animals let out of a cage. But give them a week and they're pleading to go back to school."

"I'd give it less than that," says another mum.

On the way home in the car, Eve asks me about what we're going to do the next day and the next day and they next day and the next day. . . until I run out of days in my head.

"And can Tallulah come to play every day," she says, referring to her best school friend.

"Are you missing Tallulah already?" I ask.

She nods.

"And are you missing school?"

She nods more vigorously.

"Is six weeks a very long time?" she asks.

"Quite long," I say.

"Oh bother," she says.