Keith Harrison: This reveals far too much about my private life

So I spent Saturday lining up the ladder and wedging myself into the loft hatch, trying to pull down what's left of Tesco's Finest fake plastic tree while getting in the mood with Radiohead's greatest hits.

First, though, I dropped The Teenage Daughter's friend off at the train station after a sleepover, taking the aforesaid first-born to school for a London theatre visit, dropping the car in for a service, doing the weekly shop at Sainsbury's and changing energy supplier. (Farewell evil Npower – hello sweet British Gas.)

In between that I saw my way to the opticians and then swept the leaves off the mushroom patch that used to be the lawn.

Then it was time to deck the halls with boughs of polystyrene, blu-tack and last year's Christmas cards before a midnight trip to pick up the daughter for a one word review of The Lady in Black. Question:?"How was the play?"

Answer:?"Alright." "Lame." "For God's sake Dad, I'm tired. OK??Stop asking me so many questions."

Brilliant.

I spent Sunday dropping The Boy off at rugby, watching for 20 minutes, rushing The Daughter off to netball, watching the game, dashing back to pick up a shivering Number 8 from the roadside, feeding the pair, dropping them off at their mother's, then headed home for what was left of the Sky game, while doing a spot of ironing and ringing my mum.

The weekend flashed by and before I know it, I'm back on the 5.15am shift, chipping the ice off the car for a six o'clock start with the rest of the early news team on Monday morning, longing for . . . the weekend.

It wasn't meant to be like this. This year, I was supposed to be organised, to manage my time better.

I was supposed to have the bathrooms done, the hallway decorated, the d.i.v.o.r.c.e. settled.

Instead, I still struggle to shut the leaky shower door, the dado rail remains intact and solicitors continue to send me bills for every breath they take.

I tried. I really did. I bought a Year Planner, but kept smudging the felt-tip pen.

I got a desk diary, but lost it in the depths of my kitchen drawer.

I put reminders on my phone calendar, but they kept going off at midnight, so I switched them off.

I tried Post-It-Notes, email alerts, writing on the back of my hand. I even installed a shoe box especially for 'important stuff' in my spare room.

None of it worked.

I'm just too busy to be organised. I've got too much to do – so none of it gets done. And another year flies past.

Much as I may want life to slow down, it won't.

And, to be honest, deep down, I'm glad.

In the past few months I've been to some of the world's greatest cities, had some amazing times, memorable meals, had great laughs with great friends, seen wonders of the world and shared precious moments with my loved ones that will live forever.

When I'm finally pensioned off, these will be the things that I look back on to keep me alive inside.

So next year it's Dallas and Dealey Plaza, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, the Alps, Arnhem, more Sunday morning rugby and late-night teenage taxi driving.

Life's not hanging about forever.

And neither are we.

So who cares if the shower door leaks?