IT'S 7.30 in the morning and the piercing sound of the alarm clock has rudely grabbed me from the deepest of sleeps.

Moments later I'm in the shower trying to wash away my drowsiness. But my disdain is rather more ground in.

Getting up is the bane of my life -- always has been, always will be.

The majority of my adult life has seen me working (the lowest point of which involved skinning chickens on a macabre production line) so you'd think I'd have accepted the fact that lying in bed all day is not an option. And, although I am well-practised at getting-up, I still don't like it. Never had. Never will.

Today is even worse.

Today is Sunday. My beloved Sunday when my usual plan of action involves sleeping until dinner-time, watching Top of the Pops Plus in bed and then -- at my own casual pace -- finally getting up for a cup of tea and some cornflakes. And perhaps a bit of toast.

After all it is Sunday.

On a work day there's no time for breakfast or tea -- any spare time is put to better use in bed catching all the zeds I can possibly get.

Up, dressed, out. Sometimes not in that order.

And although today is a Sunday, there'll be no tea, no cornflakes and certainly no toast.

I've interrupted my carefully planned schedule for the most dreaded date in the calendar. A Family Event.

My cousin's little girl is getting christened and so I and the Long Suffering Marjorie -- who has not said a word since getting out of bed moments after me (I told her not to go out with her Canadian pals last night!) -- must leave our house at the ridiculous hour of 8am to be at the church by 11am.

Who in God's name thought of having christenings on a Sunday -- and at such an early time?

Oh I suppose it was Him Himself. I'm still not happy about it though.

As the car pulls away the LSM jolts forward. From the time it has taken me to sit down and strap myself in with the seat-belt she had managed to fall asleep.

I pump up the volume on the radio to prevent her doing it again, for her benefit of course.

I would hate her to dribble all over her clean white blouse as she slept soundly while I ploughed on with the arduous one-hour plus drive in stone-cold silence wishing I was asleep.

A stop for a bite to eat at a motorway services gives the LSM and I a chance to stretch our legs.

The LSM sits herself down at a table, and by the time I've brought over two cups of black coffee (one to sober the LSM up, the other to keep me awake for the next leg of the journey) and two pieces of toast -- a snip at £165.34 -- she has managed to fall asleep again.

The sound of the tray crashing down next to her ear rectifies this. I would hate for her to get creased, I gently explain.

The next leg of the journey is the worst. Despite the volume of the radio the LSM is sleeping contently, and I am lost.

I've managed to get myself to the right town, but can't find the church.

I stop a passer-by but it's only when I begin to ask him for directions do I realise I don't even know the name of the church.

It's on the invitation but that's at my Folks'. A few frantic phone calls to said Folks and I'm back on track. The LSM still sleeps soundly.

We eventually get there, park the car and enter the affray.

Assorted family members who haven't clapped eyes on each other since the last wedding/funeral/christening vie for each other's attention with choruses of "haven't you changed," "how's the kids" etc etc.

I used to hate such encounters as a child but now the attention has stopped I miss it.

My three-year-old nephew, the Golden Boy, and his younger brother, the Mite, have got there before me and are hogging the limelight.

Why is nobody saying to me "haven't you shot up?" And why is nobody patting me on the head. I can stand there looking cute.

The ceremony itself is a predictable affair, as is the buffet after.

We don't stay too long and after an hour or so tackle the journey back home.

The radio is on full blast but still the LSM is sound asleep -- next time I'm getting the train.