London - The early hours of Saturday morning and I open the bedroom window to hurl the children's Furby Boom high into the night sky.
I listen with deep satisfaction as the small, stripy, irritating toy plops into next-door's stagnant pond. And then I fall back into a deep sleep, relishing the first Furby-free silence since Christmas and knowing I will never have to see the universe's most obnoxious toy ever again.
I wish.
Of course, I didn't have the parental guts to chuck the little noise ball over the wall. I removed its batteries instead. Then I hid it. I won't say where because if I tell you I will have to kill you. And if you have lived with a Furby Boom - the interactive furry toy robots that throw tantrums if neglected - you'll know I am capable of that.
Ours is called Kika. It never stops talking in a ridiculous high-school American accent. “Oh no, you did-unt,” it screeches before launching into a monologue more inane than anything you'd hear on Celebrity Big Brother.
It's the random, unpredictable nature of the Furby that's most infuriating. I've lost count of how many times it's woken us up bellowing: “Hey, you guys! Go! Go! Go!”
Mr Candy and I have spent many hours devising special ways to torture it in the way it tortures us. I favour jumping up and down on it shouting “Shut up, Beetlejuice”, but Mr C is more measured. He wants to patiently dismantle it or at least disable the voicebox.
But our children love Kika: it is cherished and adored; cared for and cuddled. So we have a conundrum.
The “kill Kika” campaign is an uprising of two. The “keep Kika” campaign is four strong. And one of them is Mabel, 2½. If you read this column regularly, you'll know about Mabel. Would you cross her or boss her? Didn't think so.
So, there is only one solution, isn't there. Only one way out of mom and dad's Furby hell. Lies.
“You have to tell them it's broken,” I whispered to Mr C as I got back into bed after removing the batteries at 2am.
I know this is wrong. Pre-child me would be horrified: she planned a no-lying household. She was quite firm about it. But maybe she just meant the children?
After all, this kind of lie is a parental survival strategy, is it not? A sanity saver in the crazy roller-coaster ride of motherhood where there's a new surprise after every hair-raising loop-the-loop.
And it won't be the first white lie we've ever told. There was the fake phone call to the wretched, filthy fun pool.
“You've closed down? Oh no, that's terrible! We won't be able to come today or ever again, then?”
The regular sweetie lies: “I have no idea who ate the last Haribo. Could have been anyone.”
In secret locations around the house are at least three recorders, quietly confiscated and dismantled. And in the loft there is a binbag of soft toys gathered one by one after spending time under a bed to see if anyone misses them.
I have to confess I enjoy the thrill of a small fib. It can brighten up a long car journey no end.
Sometimes I view them as “facts I wish were true” (doughnuts are calorie-free, for example) rather than untruths.
“When I competed in the Winter Olympics bobsleigh,” I casually threw into a conversation on the school run the other day to test if anyone was listening to me.
I survived 18 minutes of offspring interrogation on that one!
But don't judge me - you've all done it. Just remember the three rules of fibbing. Match the false fact to the age group - once they hit eight they know you are the tooth fairy and it all becomes a little more complicated.
Avoid the coward's lie - the one you tell only because you're too scared to say “no” to something unreasonable.
And remember the fibs you've told. Your story holds up only if you recall fib facts. This is more difficult than it sounds for the over-tired, ageing moms among us with more than one child.
Those of you cradling your firstborn will no doubt be horrified to read this, but as you're about to find out it's all about whatever gets you through the day. I'm off to have a doughnut in peace. - Daily Mail
* LORRAINE CANDY is editor-in-chief of Elle.