THEY say time flies when you’re having fun.

But what about when you’re just doing normal things like your ironing or cooking spaghetti bolognese? Because lately I’ve realised that time has started to fly for me at those times too.

When you’re a kid and everything — from the food you eat to the clothes you wear — is decided upon by your mum, it’s hard to have a proper concept of time because you never need to worry about it.

Being late is not something that ever crosses your mind and the only time you’re really aware of is your bedtime, and then it’s only because you’re hatching a plan to create a diversion so you can stay up late.

When you’re under the age of 10 days seem to stretch on forever. I remember genuinely thinking that the six-week school holiday was as long as the rest of the school year.

But when you grow up, get a job, and start collecting all those boring adult responsibilities, your time quota is all of a sudden eaten up.

This week I’ve been attempting to make a start on a few jobs that require me to sit down and concentrate for a few hours at a time, but I literally haven’t had the time to even begin.

The routine goes like this: get home, make tea, put a wash on, watch an episode of Friends/Frasier (depending on who gets to the remote control first), wash up, do a few jobs around the house . . . and all of a sudden I glance at the clock and it’s getting on for 10pm and time to start thinking about getting ready for bed.

Where did the evening go?

I don’t know how other people manage to do enjoyable or worthwhile things with their evenings, like read books or study for degrees. Maybe they have filthy houses covered in layers of dust? Or perhaps they’ve turned their back on their washing machines and taken to just Febreezing their clothes every now and then. It’s a tempting option when you’re faced with an overflowing basket full of hard-to-iron shirts.

Of course, there’s the weekend to squeeze in all your boring-but-essential jobs, but who wants to wake up at 7am on a Saturday to start cleaning the bath and hoovering the skirting boards? Not me, that’s for sure. What scares me is that if I have no time now, how on earth will I cope if a tribe of little Taylors come onto the scene in the future?

I now have a better understanding of my own mum, who only used to bath us once a week, on a Sunday.

I even regret the fuss I made when she once sent me to roller skating lessons with a clothes peg still stuck on the back of my club jacket — which at the time seemed like the most mortifying thing ever. She probably didn’t have time to do anything but grab the washing off the line while juggling a hundred other jobs.

If someone could find a way of adding a couple of hours to the day women everywhere would breathe a collective sigh of relief and gratitude.

Because the truth is that time doesn’t just fly when you’re having fun, but when you’re washing your socks too.