Isn't it wonderful to wake up in the morning and be presented with warm buttered croissants, freshly-squeezed orange juice and a cafetire of just-made coffee?

Yes, it would be wonderful - but not, unfortunately, in my house.

"Here you are," says The Mother, shoving a mug of instant decaff and a gnarled slice of margarine-smeared toast under my bleary eyes. "Now get up, it's almost nine o'clock."

No, she's not going soft on me in her old, old age. Breakfast in bed is her ploy for getting me up and running so that the rest of the household can use the sofa, which is where I've been sleeping for the past four nights.

My favourite auntie has come to stay for a few days and being the perfect hostess I've vacated my bedroom in her honour.

When I went to stay with her recently, the roles were reversed. A couple of my cousins were also staying and I volunteered to sleep on the sofa.

"No you won't, I will," she said quickly. "I've just had that sofa re-upholstered and I don't want anyone heavy lying on it and spoiling the shape."

When we knew my aunt was coming to stay with us, The Mother and I discussed our own sleeping arrangements.

"You're going to have to do something drastic, and pretty quickly, about the Chamber of Horrors," she told me.

"Chamber of Horrors?" I said.

"Your bedroom," she replied. "What a mess - even the dog doesn't go in there. Do you really expect visitors to jump over storage bags full of old clothes and piles of magazines and books?

"You can't even see the carpet in your room now - I bet you've forgotten what colour it is."

"It's green," I said.

"Sure that's not mould?" she replied.

The outcome was that I embarked on a no-holds barred cleaning binge. I chucked, I binned, I shredded, I decimated. But still not to The Mother's satisfaction.

She was particularly critical about the cupboard under the stairs where scurrying things have been known to live - and scurry - in dark corners.

"Why are you hoarding all those plastic bags in there?" she asked while I was messing around in the kitchen, splashing generous quantities of red wine into a casserole, as well as into my glass and all over the worktop.

"Because they come in useful," I muttered. "You can chop old ladies up and put the bits and pieces into a Sainsbury's carrier bag."

"Do you know how many you've got?" she asked, then told me. "You've got 67 carriers in there. I counted them while you were out shopping, then I threw them away."

On Saturday, a few hours before my aunt was due to arrive, The Mother's tour of inspection revealed another stain on my house's character.

"It's the front door," she said. "It needs a good clean. It's covered in grime, you'd think it was grey not white."

"For goodness sake, it's your sister who's coming, not Prince Charles," I groaned.

"Don't be sarcastic with me," she snapped back. "And where are you off to now?"

"I'm going to get some stain remover," I said. "Just in case you spot a dirty mark on the red carpet."