Have I missed anything out? Erm, let me think. Oh yeah, five days of school 39 weeks a year and playing out with friends until they're barely visible through the gloom because it's gone dark.

I'll tell you what. It's no wonder our two daughters can't get out of bed in a morning – they're knackered. It's like trying to hold down two jobs as a single mum while juggling child care and a spiralling drink problem (apart from the drink problem, you can't go round getting the under-10s ratted).

Our kids are that busy that sometimes I feel like one of those divorced dads you see out on a Sunday, trying desperately to resurrect some all but severed connection he once had with the kids he used to live with before his wife kicked him out.

Everyone in our family is that busy with running their lives that I have to look at my plate at the dining table to check what time of day it is. Toast and it's breakfast. Soup and sandwiches then it must be lunch. Dinner, well that could be anything from chicken in black bean sauce with stir-fried vegetables and brown rice to, er, whatever dead
animal rolled in breadcrumbs that's left in the freezer.

But most of the time the kids aren't there. They've either eaten at our friend's house who picks them up after school one day a week, stuffed their faces with what's left of their packed lunch or had dinner hours before yours truly gets home after putting your super soaraway Lancaster Guardian together.

Now and again our paths cross, sometimes it's even at meal times – but even then they're shovelling down their grub so they can shoot off to whatever they're up to next.

And it's true what those sweet old ladies you meet up the park the first time you're out pushing your new baby in her pram say – they're not babies for five minutes. I tell you, those white-haired old dears know what they're talking about.

But sometimes, just sometimes, you get a glimpse into their brave new world and you get to see just what makes them tick these days.

Our kids were two of five who were volunteered into modelling school uniform for the benefit of mums and dads whose kids are due to start school in September.

People who don't know us very well used to tell us how quiet and shy our kids were. Well that's b******s. They've got the supermodel
temperament, ego, confidence, looks (from me, naturally) and sheer brass neck to stand up in from of 100 grown-ups they've never met before and swan about in freshly washed and ironed school kit while beaming like a used car salesman – before everyone stopped buying cars, that is.

Oh they loved it. Absolutely loved it. And as they were the self-appointed stars of the show they naturally and lavishly took full advantage of the free bar on offer – as in as much crisps and peanuts as they could cram into their little cheeks. They were model pupils, literally, when all's said and done.

But artistic temperaments need to be handled with kid gloves. And as soon as the spotlight was switched off, out came the full-on diva behaviour. What did they want, their own dressing rooms with light bulbs around the edge of the mirror and a rider which stipulated JUST SWEETIES – NO FRUIT OR VEG, TA.

Actually, they got to road test all the cool stuff in the state-of-the-art Reception Class playground that wowed all the new mums and dads so much. Bikes with no pedals, (helps you to learn to balance quicker, see) scooters, a sand pit, decking, plastic bricks and spongy floor.

Funnily enough we were the last to leave. We were there so long we ended up helping to put the stuff back in the shed.

But it wasn't just our kids who were having all the fun last week. Oh no. I was subjected to the exquisite torture of a Saturday afternoon on the Stretford End while time seemed to move backwards as Man United and Arsenal played out what felt like a six-hour goalless draw.

A draw would have been good enough to tip United over the line for their record-equalling 18th title – but if the Gooners nicked it then Liverpool would be back in the hunt, a thought too awful for the 72,000 United fans in Old Trafford to contemplate.

Things got so bad near the end that the well educated, even tempered and charming 50-something man who has sat to my left all season hid in one of the toilets under the stand for 10 of the last 15 minutes because he simply couldn't take it any more.

But as the final whistle peeped and a roar so heartfelt and powerful that even I was shocked (think of a winning goal times 10 or that earthquake we had a few weeks ago) I congratulated myself on a job well done.
Myself? Surely I mean the Lord God Fergie, the 12st 5lb of Semtex that is the gloriously explosive Wayne Rooney, the preening but outrageously
gifted Cristiano Ronaldo, Nemanja Vidic who is carved from oak and the rest of the multi-millionaires from all round the world who kick a football about in the name of Manchester United a couple of times a week.

What? That lot? You must be kidding. The reason United won the title was down to me and me alone. You see, ever since United lost 2-0 at Fulham in March, on matchdays I've worn the same pair of thick, black socks for every game. And whenever the lads have been in bother (2-1 down at home to Villa with 10 minutes to go, 2-0 down at home to Spurs and going nowhere at half-time, 1-0 down at Wigan and just before Cesc Fabregas hit the post for Arsenal with a couple of minutes to go on Saturday) I've given the one on my left foot a little rub between my thumb and index finger and everything has turned out for the best.

Think I'm mad? You're probably right. But it worked, didn't it? The smile was only wiped off my face some four hours later when my wife (a born and bred Scouser) saw me in the latest addition to my wardrobe. A scarlet T-shirt with a crude drawing of a Red Devil sticking his trident into a prostrate Liver Bird under the slogan 'I'd Rather Walk Alone'.

Put it this way, if she catches me wearing it again I think I will be.