I'm going down the gym. It's the only place I can watch TV.

It's no good thinking in this house that come mid morning I can loll on the sofa and watch the Iraq Inquiry on TV. I'd like to think that I could. In reality, gritlet number one will come and find me and demand the spelling of hooves and police and then tell me I am boring.

Then driblet number two will wander in front of the screen and pick a fight with me because I said I would teach everyone how to stitch books and now look. I am wasting time watching TV.

By the end of that fifteen minute argument the third griblet will start off with a big attention grabbing squeal which tells me it's time to switch off TV and make lunch.

The frustration I feel at my meagre ambition thwarted will finally cause me to have a big shout. Then all the gritlets will cry and I'll spend two hours explaining why I wanted to watch the ruddy TV in the first place.

There's only one thing for it. Escape. Dump the kids with Dig and go and sit on a bike that doesn't go anywhere.

Each bike down the gym has a TV screen clamped to the front, which comes in very handy for moments like this. No one interrupts me, no one tells me to move, no one demands food, and no one screams in my ear.

On the minus side, after 45 minutes I am forgetful as to my whereabouts and start to fingerjab the screen and mouth obscenities at the gold plated moral righteousness of our ex prime minister. And after another ten minutes my blood pressure is at boiling point.

But at least I can say this was the day I was there, on a bike not going anywhere, watching this hollow moment of justification in a world made fearful and dangerous and deadly. And I didn't make the children cry. But how many children must have cried for what's done, and how many more have to cry for what is yet to come.