IT’S OK TO LET GO OF PRODUCTIVITY AND JUST RELAX

Whoever came up with the idea behind Gogglebox must be a television mastermind. While not a massive fan of reality shows – the shame of watching the first ever Big Brother will never be fully shaken off – to my surprise along came Gogglebox.

Normal everyday families getting paid to watch telly. To sit on their couch in the

comfort of their own homes with a nice wee plate of cakes and a cup of tea.

To view the very same programmes we (normal people) watch, all while we watch THEM. My mind is blown.

Even more hysterical? Gogglebox Kids. There is

one gorgeous wee chap who is far more intellectually superior to me – and I don’t even mind!

The quips he spouts are priceless and I can’t help hoping his parents record every single one to play on a loop at his 21st. Finally, we have Celebrity Gogglebox.

I’ll quickly point out I don’t watch every episode. It sits patiently on our Sky planner waiting for a night when I’m too tired to watch something with substance.

But when all other preferred programmes are exhausted, Gogglebox never fails.

It’s reliably easy, relatable and instils the comforting

notion that, regardless of all the horrible stuff going on in

the world, the whole nation over we are all watching similar things that provoke comparable reactions.

Confessing I’m rather late to the party almost feels like I’m outing my low-brow TV choices by admission of my enjoyment.

However, I can’t help but love Lorraine Kelly’s daughter Rosie for announcing her love of champagne consumption or the comfortable banter between Rylan and his mum.

Roman and Martin Kemp? Too cute, more like a pair of mischievous teenage besties than father and son.

These relationships bring hope to a mum whose eldest is about the fly the nest.

I hope she’ll come home and cuddle up on the couch to watch trash TV with me even after she’s officially “left”.

Emotions are already flying high with schools going back. It’s been a phased return with middle starting on Wednesday and smug littlest not having to return until Friday.

I know we’ll all feel the house to be a little quieter. A little less chaotic. Fewer shouts enquiring about the location of favourite trainers or predictable cries of “what’s

for lunch”.

I wanted to take a roadtrip before they started back. Maybe the coveted NC500 or down south to visit much-missed friends?

However, my bank account strongly suggested it be a trip

to work. So I flung open the doors, let some fresh air in and sat on my couch.

A pathetic attempt to trick my body into thinking I was somewhere more tropical than north-east Scotland.

Total fail. I enjoy working from home but as a stress baker – and subsequent eater – I miss the option of colleagues to force-feed.

The Mister’s work benefitted instead, coincidentally bagging me “superwife” brownie points – without me having to put on trousers or leave the house!

With school restarting and university looming, I find myself longing for more summer.

With my health issues, I feel I’ve achieved very little. Yes, I’ve kept the business afloat, but now I must accept the fact it’s time to investigate selling so I can focus on my kids and health.

There is never going to be a good outcome to my stage of cancer, but I do hope I have a lot more time to annoy them.

Accepting that rest is a huge part of this hasn’t been easy. Realising I don’t always have to do stuff or achieve something.

I don’t have to spend my free time productively. I don’t

have to bake bread or learn the guitar. Sometimes I can just eat crisps and survive – and that’s just fine, too.

I don’t want to be patted on the back for how well I

take a hit. Or how many. My new goal is to never be called resilient again in my life. I’m exhausted by strength. I want support.

I want softness and I dream of ease. I want to be among family and friends. Even if they’re sitting on a

couch inside my television.

Roman and Martin Kemp are more like teenage besties.