By PM Polly

The partners meeting starts at 8am.

My alarm goes off at 5.30am.

I step out of the futon that I bought when I was going through my ‘Japanese furnishing’ phase and moan at the pain as my bones cheer from the relief of getting away from the not so ‘luxury’ mattress.  I meander to the bathroom and stand in cat sick on the way.  Not exactly sick but more of a regurgitated fur ball.  I try not to shout out too much so the twins keep sleeping.  It doesn’t work.

Change of nappies, clothes, wash and an attempt to feed yoghurt and banana to both one year olds results in…. a change of nappies, clothes and another wash.

Have you ever had a shower while also trying to entertain one year olds?  The bathroom has been transformed into what can really only be described as something resembling Dartmoor prison, with not just one safety gate, but two.  I barely stand in said shower for 30 seconds before twin A has got hold of the toothpaste and twin B has got hold of the razor blade.

These days my hair has to dry ‘naturally’ – no time for dryers and straighteners, the twins play with my make-up and chew on the brow brushes while squirting mousse on the cat.  I no longer care because at least I’m able to get dressed.  Compromises and all that.

I prize them both off my legs as I guiltily leave nursery, I hear them cry and scream all the way back to my rather tired looking VW Beetle.  As usual I tell myself what an awful mum I am and how could I do this to them.  As usual I then hear nothing.  No crying.  And I see them playing in the beautiful garden of the child minder giggling in the sand pit.  The tears are just for me.  To make me feel hellish.  It works.

I fight with lorries and bikes and cars and pedestrians and traffic lights and zebra crossings and lolly pop ladies/men and at 7.45am I arrive at the surgery.  My hair looks like I’ve run four miles in a thunderstorm and I’ve got banana on my jacket but I’m here.  On time.

The door hasn’t shut behind me before a receptionist walks past in tears; she has ongoing ‘boyfriend’ issues.  The other receptionist has already been told off by a GP because there are ‘too many patients’ booked in and the secretary mumbles something about the nurse who apparently keeps ‘stealing her stamps’.

At 7.55am I’ve set up the meeting room and chairs.  I’ve got myself a coffee and I indulge in my breakfast of a Twix.  While I wait I load up my emails and sigh as it’s only been 12hours and there’s already fifty-three emails and twenty-two tasks.

At 8.10am I’m still going through my emails.  Waiting.

At 8.20am I’m still going through my emails.  Waiting.  Getting a little bit cross.

At 8.30am they all come in together.  Sorry says the first, lots of queries to answer.  Sorry says the second, my session with the personal trainer went on a bit this morning.  The third doesn’t even say sorry but walks in with a Costa coffee and a blueberry muffin that he picked up on his way.

I sit there.  Pick at the dried banana on my jacket.  Smile.  Hand the agenda out.

And get on with it.

That’s what Practice Managers do, isn’t it?!