Back in July, the thought of the imminent six week summer holiday was exciting if a little daunting.

It felt as if the time would stretch out ahead and there would be endless hours for summer fun and most importantly, the chance to get off the hamster wheel which I feel we spend most weeks on.

No early starts and school runs. No bags to pack and PE kits to find at the 11th hour. No homework to nag about and a chance to let bedtime become less of a military operation.

Obviously work has to continue but one of the (only) advantages to being self-employed is the flexibility that this brings.

I’ve been able to juggle working hours to some degree and somehow we’ve muddled through the holidays managing to hold down two jobs and amuse three children whilst having a stab at still paying the bills.

Here we are with only a week to go and the time has flown by and there still seems to be a long list of all the things I’d wanted to do.

Childcare has been a mix of lovely friends, sports camps and wonderful grandparents, all of whom seem to have provided much more enjoyment than school seems to; rather unsurprisingly. When I look back, probably with rather rose-tinted glasses, I remember things slightly differently.

Growing up with a mum who was a teacher, childcare was never an issue, though I suspect there may have been occasions when work must have seemed like the easier option. We had a beach hut on Clacton-on-Sea beach and spent endless hours on the beach and in what now seems like an Arctic sea, waiting the daily opportunity of a lemonade sparkle lolly.

Holidays were in a five-berth caravan; parents up one end and the five of us kids squeezed top to toe up the other end and living off a diet of dehydrated astronaut food that bore little resemblance to actual real food though tasted surprisingly nice.

I have memories of afternoons spent knocking a tennis ball against the back wall or playing swingball. I’m sure we did a lot more that I just don’t remember.

It was without doubt a very happy way to grow up but it makes me wonder whether it’s really worth killing myself to give my children varied experiences and happy memories of summer holidays.

Last week I dragged them and my parents around Buckingham Palace with what seemed like the entire population of Europe and kidded myself that they were really interested in the works of art adorning the walls. After parting with a hefty chunk of cash to be given a peek at the palace (which I believe is funded by us tax payers anyway) and passing the picnic lunch through more airport scanners than I've even seen at Heathrow, we made our way through the opulent state rooms with children who seemed more concerned with the contents of the gift shop than the Canelettos . It's hard not to feel like an obedient subject as you are herded around the route, but there was something strangely fascinating about the whole experience.

After leaving with as many bits of Royal souvenir tat that we could carry I was left feeling that maybe I’d got this whole thing wrong. In years to come will they hold these memories dearly?

Who knows? They’ll probably just remember the super cone Mr Whippy with extra topping and a double flake we had on the way home.

At least I have the plastic gold-coated throne key ring and the bearskin dressing up hat to show them and prove my good mum intentions.

And so in the last few days of our beloved summer holidays, we’ll be slowing the pace a little.

Starting to go to bed before midnight, eating slightly less ice cream and a few more vegetables.

I should probably check they still know how to hold a pen and can remember at least some part of the eight times table. We’re aiming for less daytrips and more make your own fun.

With only 124 days to Christmas it’s going to a slippery slope come September.

Still at least Christmas presents are going to be easy this year; everyone is getting a swingball. Sorted.

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