At about 9.50 most mornings, my daughter and I are at the dining table. She’s got toast and a glass of juice in front of her. I’ve got my freshly percolated Illy coffee (it really is the best) and a slice of toast with a 35,000-tog duvet thickness layer of butter slapped on it (unsalted for health reasons).

Most my neighbours are families. Some have two children under five but they're all properly dressed, looked washed and are carrying full cool bags.

One by one (many long before 10.00) we watch them march off and pile into cars.

How long have they been up? Do they set alarms during summer holidays? Or are they just naturally early risers?

We chew our toast sleepily, gazing dreamily at the army of neighbours with their clean children and talk about what we want to do that day.

”After sitting and drawing each other pictures, we make it to the park with a flat football and poor quality tennis equipment”

My daughter has been waking at around 9.30 some mornings. My body’s alarm is set for 6.30 but it’s slowly adjusting to 8.00 now. At this rate (about 10 minutes later each day), by the time the hols are over I’ll slide out of bed at lunchtime and be ready to start the day by school pick up time.

I’m puzzled as to how these families do it though. It’s quite impressive. Their cool bags look like they might contain home-made lemonade and freshly roast chicken. Perhaps even a terrine or two.

My daughter and I examine the fridge for sandwich fillings. Cheese and mango chutney; or ham and cheese. Alternatively ham and chutney – not so good.

We sit and watch a bit of Chicken Run. I know no one will call at the door except couriers and I tell myself they must have seen worse.

Having the door answered by a woman wearing baggy leggings and an inside out T-shirt (so obviously pyjamas) with frightening hair holding half an apple at 12.30 isn’t going to startle a hardened UPS man.

After sitting and drawing each other pictures, we get dressed and make it out to the park with a flat football and poor quality tennis equipment.

My wooden Slazenger racket (£1 from the Red Cross) isn’t bad. I can serve well and make the ball travel some yards.

When my daughter thwacks it back with her modern, lightweight racket time and again, I find I’m getting all the exercise. The field is a big space and I’m done in. She hums sweetly while I run out of sight to get the ball.

“Whose time are we saving? Certainly not mine. We’re saving staff time”

On my journey to it, I devise ways of introducing new rules. Like, ‘She who hits the ball at an angle of more than 90 degrees away from opponent’s body must get it’.

Football isn’t too bad though I find we’re retrieving and throwing back the older boys’ footballs more often. I begin to think they’re doing it on purpose now. One smart lad decides to start talking to me In French.

From there we go to Tesco and pick up some essentials. My daughter wants to use the self-scan device which I loathe.

‘Save time at the checkout’ it says near the scales. We are now encouraged to weigh our own produce after finding it on their bizarre produce finder (garlic is grouped with mushrooms).

Whose time are we saving? Certainly not mine. We’re saving staff time. Don’t worry staff: soon you’ll have all the time you like on your hands if these schemes take off. It’s called redundancy.

I bite my tongue as my daughter enjoys scanning everything. She doesn’t have to pack as she goes along or walk to another aisle to find a weighing machine that a)works and b)has labels or c) works, has labels and doesn’t have a queue of people waiting for the only machine that works, has labels and no message on the screen saying ‘Close printer port’.

So once home again I stare blankly at the dirty coffee pot and other abandoned breakfast things in the kitchen. Looks like we left the house really early this morning or in a great rush.

We have a game of chess and I drag myself up to cook some sort of dinner. Will slightly hard cheese and chutney sandwiches do I wonder?

”In my easy-going holiday attitude, I like to think I’m helping my daughter cope with work”

I also wonder whether being slow and lacking plans for some of the holiday means anything.

Does it mean we’re not motivated? Are we low achievers? Is there something wrong with us? Should we have worked out a holiday schedule some time in May?

Maybe. But for the six weeks of school holidays (hurrah!), we both seem content to drift, amble and keep the brakes on. We both do enough marching, time-keeping and scheduling when school’s on.

In my easy-going holiday attitude, I like to think I’m helping my daughter cope with work.

To know that every six weeks or so there’s some relief, some space not to be anywhere, do anything or achieve anything in particular seems OK.

There are places I want to go like the V&A and British Museum. But then, will either of us actually be culturally deprived people if we don’t make it? Let's wait and see.