Whenever I was struggling to get on with a project of whatever nature, there was nothing like a violent mood seething inside to facilitate getting a job done.

With gritted teeth, slitted eyes and snarling temper, I would take out all my aggression on whatever task was before me whether it was a rowing machine, polishing the TV set or felling a tree ("Look, if the tree aint there then that Tom cat can't sit in it and stare at me okay!").

As the kids got older, however, I could no longer get away with those sorts of tantrums.

When a four year old offers to fix your problems and actually comes up with a better solution than exterminate, then things have definitely got to change!

During the adjustment period of temper to tantric, I drifted into competitiveness. I would see others succeeding where I was failing and it would spur me on.

I would see girls on TV or in magazines from my old talent agency looking all glamorous and next thing I know I have peroxide on my hair, my skin reeking of fake tan and my hands flapping like birdie wings in an attempt to dry my nail polish.

It is kind of deflating when realising however that my childless ex agency rivals are bestowing their beauty upon celebrities at swanky parties whilst I am wafting loveliness for a very unappreciative audience at the school gates or round Sainsburys.

This competitive spirit also liked to flare up at the gym.

I would be quite happily doing my own thing on the various apparatus, not particularly working up a sweat in my six year old tracksuit and pre-child sports bra which has the ability of flattening me to a six year old's proportion.

Then in she saunters, Miss Gym Bunny 2007. Perfectly preened and toned she prances in front of the mirror doing stretches that would make my eyes water before hopping aboard the treadmill.

While I am doing a brisk walk she increases her speed to jog, all light and springy, I fear she makes me look frumpy, lumpy and lazy. I increase my speed to a jog to match, she increases to a sprint.

I adjust my settings to match and immediately am struck by a sudden and vicious stitch. I slam on the emergency stop for the first time ever.

The machine stops, I don't.

I find myself in a sprawling heap wondering if anyone is noticing the blood spurting from my nostril.

She carries on running regardless.

Then there was the competitive element with my husband entitled: 'Who has worked the hardest today' the winner was allowed to put their feet up with the remote control and a cuppa, while the loser has to amuse the kids, cook the tea, feed the cats and tidy the chaos'.

Mr Manager often believed he had it tougher being on his feet all day, telling everyone else what work to do, while I was Mrs Multitask work, kids, shopping and taxi service.

On a more playful note, in an attempt to maintain rock hard abs, we would compete on who could do the most stomach crunches (I win) and press ups (I could do the press bit just not the up bit, so he wins that one) also who can catch one of our children and dress it for bed first and finally who wins the duvet tug of war.

Nowadays, for the most part, neither anger nor rivalry will inspire me into making the required effort.

Nope, now I need to feel happy and secure in order to get something done. I go to the gym when I feel good about myself and when I feel like grotbags I stay at home and sulk.

On a good day, I will write at least a chapter for my book and a column as well but on a bad day I just stare out the window, doodle and sulk.

What I need to keep in my head on a sulk day is the following mantra: 'It is my quirks that save me from being boring. It is my flaws that keep me from being intimidating to others and it is my sense of humour towards all which I cannot control which keeps me sane' that is my guru mantra anyway.

Failing that I opt for 'if I achieved it all today then I would be blimmin' bored tomorrow'