Let me take you behind the scenes of Fast Track Friday at the centre, where fitness, fun, and frantic faffing reign supreme. Picture this: it’s 9am, the caffeine hasn’t even kicked in, and I’m unlocking the centre with the enthusiasm of a squirrel who’s discovered Red Bull. Why? Because it’s Fitness and Fun Friday, which means the only thing moving faster than my feet is my wit (and possibly my blood pressure).

Now, usually, the loos are buffed to a shine by our own Dutchess Dazzling Debbie, a woman whose devotion to chrome taps is matched only by her collection of antibacterial sprays. You could check your lipstick (or last night’s regrets) in those taps, so spotless are they. But alas, Dutchess Dazzling Debbie was struck down by a head cold, so the only thing getting scrubbed this Friday was my dignity as I found myself elbow-deep in bog juice, changing toilet rolls and emptying the sanitary bin.

Of course, time waits for no one (except my cleaner, who could outwit you with a Henry Hoover and a bottle of Flash anytime). So there I am, speed-scrubbing the ladies’ loos, but the men’s? Well, I simply ran out of time. I do sincerely feel for Dutchess Dazzling Debbie on Monday morning, when she’ll encounter the men’s bogs. I can only hope she’s armed with industrial-strength gloves and the spirit of Florence Nightingale. Sorry, Debs, I owe you a cuppa and possibly a therapy voucher!

Meanwhile, in our main hall, Melline Melon, our fitness instructor extraordinaire and queen of aerobics, was leading Fitness Friday. I adore Melline Melon. She’s the kind of woman who, when you return to the centre, has shoved the cups in the dishwasher, switched everything off, and locked the door so thoroughly you’d think MI5 was involved. Legend!

Speaking of doors, let me clarify that if you ever hear a tale about the back exit being broken on Melon’s shift, it wasn’t her fault. The door fitter, in a display of craftsmanship reminiscent of a toddler with an IKEA kit, hadn’t fitted it properly in the first place. Poor Mel was convinced she’d broken it with her pumped arms. She hadn’t. The only thing she’s ever broken is our attendees’ sweat.

With all that in hand, I scribbled a note for Melinie Melon (on the kitchen counter, in my best ‘mum handwriting’), feeling on top of things; “on it like a car bonnet”, as they say. Off I zoomed home, grabbed my ID from the kitchen table, and dashed to my job centre interview, all in the noble quest to help Matthew with his Universal Credit claim. Matthew, wise soul, stayed in the car, probably meditating, or more likely, scrolling through dachshund Reels and pinging them to my WhatsApp while I am sitting in this meeting.

Inside, I met the loveliest lady at the job centre. You know the type, so kind you can’t decide whether to hug her or ask for her adoption papers. She asked me about our circumstances, and I felt tears prick. There’s something about people being nice that sets off the waterworks, isn’t there? You can spend all week with a poker face, holding it together through cleaning loos in D.D Debbie’s absence and a pantry shop delivery, not turning up on time, but give me one kind word and I’m a puddle. I had to physically push the tears to the back of my eyeballs because, frankly, no one needs to see me blub in public right now.

As I left the Job Centre with PIP Claim, Fit Notes, and Universal Credit swimming in my head and feeling exhausted, because in the normal world, we just both go to work full-time, earn a wage, and enjoy life with no hassle. I staggered out of the jobcentre with my energy levels lower than a sloth on a Sunday, to be greeted by a text from grandchild number one: “What time are you picking me up?” I replied, “4 pm,” thinking I’d have just enough time to swing by the centre, close everything for the weekend, collapse into a glorious nana nap, and summon the strength to collect her. But fate (in the form of my daughter) intervened, grandchild number one was told she was staying home that evening, leaving two weary grandparents to finally rest.

Well, you’d have thought the world had ended. Cue a flood of tragic voice notes to her mum, each one more dramatic than the last, think Hollywood starlet levels of despair. “If I can’t go to Nanna & G-Pops’ house, what’s the point of even existing?” she wailed from her bedroom. Honestly, I’ve seen less drama in my friend Ellen Grubba’s TV scripts! And my friend Ellen has starred in some Hollywood A-list TV dramas throughout her career. Everything from Sons of Anarchy to the Supernatural, alongside the two hot brothers who seek out paranormal shit. However, nobody had more drama right now than this 10-year-old child, thinking she could not stay the weekend at Nanna’s.

Any-hoo, a few hours (and a solid nap) later, Matthew and I were restored enough to fetch our granddaughter after all. And would you believe it? The little madam ditched us ten minutes after arriving, off to see her friend who lives behind us. So much for missing us; clearly, it was her bestie she was pining for, not us, the doting grandparents. We are just the bed and breakfast, lunch, snacks, dinner, sweet treats, and everything else, until my kitchen cupboards resemble Old Mother Hubbard’s.

My evening wrapped up with the usual: chasing my granddaughter around at 7pm because she’s suddenly developed “selective hearing” whenever I call her, phone and Matthew, telling me it’s okay to move on if he passes away. I told him, “After you, the only men in my life will be my son, grandsons, and the dog, so please stop conjuring up the Genine of Doom, you’re not going anywhere! We’ll be cracking jokes in our nineties and getting up to mischief in the old folks’ home together (unless my son carts me off there before then, at 55, which he has already threatened to do so!).

So there you have it: Fast Track Friday, where the fitness is fierce, the loos are only half clean, and the only thing running faster than my mascara is my to-do list. Tune in next week, when I attempt to fix the printer armed only with duct tape and determination.

See, I told ya I couldn’t make this shit up!… Ever!