A night on the sofa did nothing at all for my mood...

I’m writing this in a dreadful mood because I have had no sleep. My sister, Ruth, was invited to a wedding near where I live and asked if she could stay the night at our house afterwards.

Naturally, being a loving sibling, I replied “of course”.

The plan was that I’d sleep on the sofa downstairs, while my seven-year-old daughter Mary took my place in the marital bed alongside Mrs Canavan, leaving Ruth free to sleep in Mary’s room.

When I told the kids Aunty Ruth was staying for the night they were delighted and jumped around in excitement for several minutes.

Then they asked where she was sleeping and I explained she’d be in Mary’s bed.

“What?” cried Mary, with the exasperation of a teenager told they were going on a fortnight’s holiday to a place with no mobile phone signal.

Her face then crumpled and she began wailing.

“I don’t want anyone in my room,” she hollered. And in a chilling vision of what will be the norm in another few years, stomped up the stairs to her room and slammed the door shut.

To be fair I think she did dwell on what I’d said because about half an hour later she came downstairs in slightly sheepish manner, clutching a handwritten note on A4 paper.

“Aunty Ruth can have my room,” she announced in a tone of voice that suggested she was making the greatest sacrifice since Captain Oates announced he was going outside and may be some time. “But can you ask her to follow this?”

The note read: ‘Dear Aunty Ruth. Please look after my room and please follow the rules that are attached to the door’. (this is true: Mary has nine rules pinned to her door, which include ‘don’t hit in my room’, ‘don’t shout in my room’ and – my personal favourite – ‘you will care for any injured animal that comes in’, you know, on the off-chance a distressed otter calls round).

It was me, though, who suffered most. My legs were dangling over the end of the sofa from about the thigh down – and there were at least two quite pronounced hard bumps situated in such an area that it was impossible not to be lying on at least one.

I put a movie on at 2am, had tea and toast at 4.30am, before, mercifully, sometime around half five I nodded off.

At 6.10am I felt something hitting me. “Daddy, Daddy.” I groggily opened my eyes and saw my five-year-old Wilf an inch from my face.

“What’s up? You ok?” I stuttered in dazed fashion.

“Yes, Daddy I’m fine. Can we play Monopoly?” he said.

I’ve since had five strong coffees and still feel like a walking corpse. Bedtime tonight can’t come soon enough.