Knackered. Eyes won't open. But I'm going to crank myself and that printer to life if it kills me. So to speak.
Argh! I can't believe the time expended on a competition that affords a £1 prize and probably resentment rather than hearty admiration from one's fellow villagers. Closing time for entries is 10am.
'Lily! Quick! Get your bike! You'd better go ahead with your jam tarts and your courgette man! Quick!'
Lily goes out to unlock her bike while I try and find a rigid basket to carry the Six Jam Tarts on a Plate in, so they don't get knocked and crumble. Fail. Right. Get dressed. Drive.
Racing to the front door, I spot a dog-eared print of my village scene kitchen pinboard. It's too big for the rules and regs. Unpin it and take a ruler and a kitchen knife to it. Hmmm. A travesty, but at least it's the right size.
As we walk into the church hall, Lily hisses, 'Mum, we need to hide the one that's broken underneath.'
I can't bear it. I was so delirious last night, I put a cracked tart on the plate. Out of all the perfect ones I picked a broken one! She'll get disqualified. The shame.
'Right. You go ahead with Courgette Man.' I race back to the car, execute a high-speed three-point turn outside the church and speed back through the village.
That's it. The last time I'm ever entering any competition in my life, in particular any village flower show, fete or dog show. Oh, we got the entries in, but my nerves are in tatters.