Self- help books? I lap ’em up. I’ve felt the fear and done it anyway: I’ve creatively visualized with Shakti Gawain: I know several Daniel Goleman books by heart. I’ve sampled the Dalai Lama- although, does he count as a self-help author?

Maybe he’s a bit too profound and universally true for that.

But I’ve never read that eternal coffee-table-classic, Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.

But you don’t have to, do you? The way it works is: you listen to your best friend rattling on about it; get a shaky grasp of the salient messages of the book; and then tell it to at least ten other people through your own, possibly warped, lens.

So: here goes.

In the twelfth chapter of the aforementioned classic, John Gray posits that men love to do things for their women, because it makes them feel important. The catch? They wait to be asked.

But, he says, women like men to be magicians. They don’t want to have to request: they want their men to divine what they want.

Abracadabra, the Great Soprendo will now, without the aid of a safety net or any other magic-man gadgetry, anticipate that your mouth feels like the bottom of a handbag and make you some tea.

It appears, girls, that you do have to ask.

Picture, then, a rose-bedecked cottage on the South Coast of England.

It is 6:09am, and there I sit, praying , hoping against all hope, that the children will not wake up for, oh, just a little while: just a sane, short half an hour before I begin, once more, to chase the hurricane.

My clever husband adapted beautifully to the whole tea thing, as I think I have mentioned before.

Every morning, regular as a slightly dodgy clockwork timepiece from the fourties, there he is, making tea the way only he can.

Holidays can prove an exception.

And as I turn slightly desperately in his direction, I am a tad worried he will reply with a snore.

But no: his eyes open, and I see a light in them. Within a minute, he will shuffle off downstairs to prepare the best drink of the day.

Cue the padding of feet. I know my heart shouldn’t sink, but with every footfall, the possibility of my sanity break recedes.

Mad appears, with a smile that would match the sunrise if it were visible. My working day has begun.

I grew up in a large, happy family with three larger-than life siblings. I was the eldest, so I was often the ringleader. This is not a private role. Life is one long public engagement.

Just occasionally, I would pop up to the family toilet, go in, lock the door, and just sit there. Alone for a few short minutes.

Sobbing yet?

So you can see why, when I do get seconds to myself, I watch them greedily.

Unfortunately, when it is time for myself and my solitary time to part ways, I rarely get warning.

A small being will hurtle onto the bed: an argument will erupt, and every ounce of diplomacy and considerable voice projection will be required to settle it.

A dog will run into the garden and start barking enthusiastically at a small insect. All these things, and more, draw me away from quiet time.

Today Big Al, my boisterous nephew, and his sisters the princesses arrive for an overnighter. Me Time this is not.

But at this early hour, before any arrivals, we sit all together on the bed.

The family laughs and jokes and prattles, always entertaining. Joke-jousting, day planning, activity-bartering all flow effortlessly.

But I’m sitting with pyjamas on, not the battle armour I so need.

I’m unshowered, disquieted, and I need solitude. Now.

The family gaggle gathers momentum, working towards a crescendo. And Phil appears to be at the very heart of the merriment, laughing, tossing Bumpy the Elephant around with abandon, delighting the ever more excited children…

And from the very depths of my being, a long forgotten conversation with a friend across a coffee table bubbles to the surface.

Men are from Mars. Just ask.

And I put my hands over my face.I can’t quite control my harrassed tone of voice.

“Phil, will you please take these children away and put them in the jacuzzi, immediately?

And he does just that.