The woman who says she’s Britain’s most put-upon mother

A howl of rage that’ll strike a chord with countless exhausted women caught between elderly relatives, a lazy husband and children who won’t fly the nest

in the kitchen, while the other three were slumped in front of the TV or iPad with a cup of tea.

I resented being the only person not to presume that dinner gets itself out of the oven and onto the table unaided; the only person getting up ridiculously early to put on a washload so I could hang it out before dashing to work.

And why was it me forbidding myself a glass of wine of an evening in case Nicci or Max phoned and needed picking up. ‘Mum, I’ve had a drink and can’t drive … should I get a taxi or will you collect me?’ It’s Chris who’s meant to be the professional taxi driver, after all!

I resented having a continual to- Do list for five people so that I could remind everyone where they should be and what they should be doing: ‘Mum, don’t forget you have a blood test at the hospital tomorrow.’ And ‘Max, have you finished that assignment — it’s the deadline on Friday, remember?’

If I did ‘steal’ a few hours to spend with a friend, I resented being constantly interrupted by the phone: ‘Mum, did you do that thing I asked?’

And what about our dog Brandy? Why doesn’t anyone else think she might need to be let out into the garden or taken for a walk?

We have a dishwasher — but loading it seems to be beyond anyone but me. I resent feeling grateful if dirty glasses and cups make it as far as the kitchen!

All the while, there were — and still are — the daily calls from Mum. I know how lonely she must be but, like most older people, she has no concept of the frantic pace of modern life and the never-ending demands on parents.

she can’t understand why I’m always dashing about doing ironing while she’s on speakerphone (which she struggles to hear).

And then there are the visits. Always during summer and for her birthday in February, plus whenever else I can fit it in to coincide with school holidays, autumn half-term, Easter and Christmas.

Christmas is my most loathed time of year. I used to spend the first week of the school holiday dashing around buying food and presents for everyone. I’d then hop on the plane to Guernsey on Boxing Day to repeat the whole process, only returning the day before I went back to work, utterly frazzled.

sometimes I do have little outbursts. I sit Chris and the children down and tell them I need to know in advance who’s in for dinner, who’s not coming home that night (so I don’t have a heart attack at the sight of an empty driveway in the morning) and why can’t anyone put the flaming dishwasher on?

‘Yes, yes,’ they’ll say and things will change … for maybe as long as two days.

so last June, I surrendered. At 61 I retired from work, thinking only then that would I get a moment to myself. I pictured a tidy home, seeing friends, feeling more relaxed, actually talking to the children rather than having rushed half conversations as they dash in and out to see their friends.

How wrong could I be? since leaving work, my overwhelming emotion has changed from resentment to guilt. I still don’t have enough time to complete the chores and tend to everyone’s demands —– and without the excuse of work, I blame myself.

And as far as the others are concerned, I’m constantly available to sort out car parking tickets, endless meals, doctors appointments, the vet, walking the dog. the list goes on.

Mum thinks I should visit for longer periods now that I no longer have the restraints of school holidays. she argues that the cost of flights makes a longer stay more economical.

In fairness, part of this is down to how society has changed. Were it easier to get a mortgage, rents more affordable, the children wouldn’t be living with us. Chris, meanwhile, is a product of his generation and was brought up to expect a wife to ‘run the home’.

the other problem is that, like most of my friends, I don’t look or act my 62 years. We all listen to the same music and my daughter and I wear the same clothes — so they don’t expect me to get tired like an older person. But I do.

then there’s the fact that the younger generation naturally expects more support than my own. By wrapping them up in cotton wool, we made them more dependent. Yesterday’s pampered children become the adults still tied to the apron strings.

Consequently, for us women in the middle, heavy demands come from all directions. the children expect the attention they have always received, husbands expect a housekeeper and parents a dutiful daughter.

And all the while there is a voice inside me screaming: ‘Agggghhhh!’ When will I ever be able to sit down for five minutes?