I do not like being an adult. The pressure of having to look after myself is overwhelming.

Long gone are the days of mam and dad waking me up to make sure I’m not late for school or work.

Even further gone are those amazing moments when I’d enter the house to find a warm meal waiting for me.

I didn’t have to worry about timekeeping or eating healthier, someone else was always there to bear the burden for me.

Nowadays, my five a day consists of a few blobs of tommy sauce on my chips.

And if I want to make sure I’m not late for work I have to set an alarm on my mobile phone which, I’ve noticed, has taken to switching itself off if I’ve been on the juice the night before. How weird is that?

But it doesn’t stop there. Not only do I have to fight on with keeping myself alive and going into work, I also have the added stress of not being able to spend all my pennies exactly how I’d like to.

Feeling a bit chilly? I have to pay my own central heating bill.

Wanting to drive Colin around and about town? I have to pay my car loan and stop at the petrol station.

It’s only looking back that I can sympathise with my parents when they asked who’d used all the diesel after they had just filled the tank right up.

I also feel bad about all those times I’d flounce around the house in mid January in shorts and a T-shirt with the heating turned to full.

History won’t be repeating itself in my house, mind you.

I’ve already trained the kids to put on four pairs of socks and three vests if they know we’re going to be stuck in the house all day.

After paying my bills this month I found myself a little flush. The kids had been diagnosed with hypothermia but it was worth it to have a little extra spending money.

Then what happened? Some higher power decided it wanted to make my already insufferable adult life even more unbearable and out of nowhere I found myself with a blocked sink.

I say out of nowhere – probably something to do with the takeaway noodles I’d washed down the sink alongside the cardboard that I feed the kids on.

I tried prodding the drain with a fork, pouring cola down it – everything.

Unfortunately, I was forced to call a plumber and totally waste all my surplus fag money on maintaining the drains.

Before I called I entertained the possibility of using the over-flowing sink as some sort of kiddie-bird bath but the social would have a field day.

I was already on thin ice after phoning my seven-year-old for a lift outside Pad’s at 3am. I dunno what all the fuss was about – that kid can perform a three-point turn like it’s nobody’s business.

Anyhow, a chap came out to have a look. A big, burly fella that basically stole my fork routine, though substituting what looked like a colposcopy tube for a fork.

“That’s £72, lass,” he sighed, matter of factly.

“Whhhaaattt? Do the taps have Grey Goose coming out now or summat?!” I was going to pass out.

So I’m back to square one. My sink works but my cash is non-existent.

I don’t need the stress of being a grown-up and having all these adult issues.

Still, at least I’ve got a personal chauffeur for when I can afford to go partying again.