Monday morning arrived, and I felt as though I had been hit by a ton of bricks. Then, just for good measure, the bricks reversed over me to make sure the job was properly finished.

Let’s talk about fibromyalgia.

My entire body was aching from head to toe. I felt as though I had run a marathon, climbed a mountain and completed an intense gym session. In reality, I had spent six hours in the fresh air doing a car boot sale.

Apparently, my body has now decided that fresh air is an extreme sport.

I was stiff, exhausted and could barely move. Even getting off my kitchen chair required careful planning, several sound effects and the determination of an Olympic athlete.

My arthritic thumb was also worse than ever, except the pain had decided not to remain politely in my thumb. Oh no. It had invited itself into my entire hand, unpacked its bags and made itself comfortable.

Clearly, I had completely overdone it. My body was screaming, “Sit down, woman!” But life had other ideas. I still had to collect my dad from the garage and take him home. Monday morning arrived, and I felt as though I had been hit by a ton of bricks. Then, just for good measure, the bricks reversed over me to make sure the job was properly finished, 'cause fibromyalgia might flatten me, but it never has the decency to clear my diary first.

Honestly though, all that pain for a £2.30 profit at the car boot sale. I could have stayed at home, thrown £12.70 out of the window and saved myself the physical trauma.

Then my daughter’s dentist phoned about her check-up on Wednesday. The same day, she already had a hospital appointment. Because apparently, one medical appointment in a day simply isn’t enough excitement for our family.

They offered her an appointment on Tuesday instead, which I immediately accepted. The dentist is in Essex, where I lived for 20 years, so naturally I decided to arrange some beauty treatments for myself while we were there.

If I was going to feel 103, I certainly didn’t have to look it.

After a busy day in Essex, with beauty treatments for the dentist and me for my daughter, the day took another dramatic turn.

My daughter started having another cluster of non-epileptic seizures in the evening. She was taken to hospital by ambulance, and we found ourselves sitting in resus.

The hospital was unbelievably busy that night. There was a corridor bed after a corridor bed, with police officers surrounding a man nearby.

Beauty treatments, the dentist and then resus. Honestly though, you couldn’t make up the sudden turns our lives take.

It doesn’t matter how many times it happens or how familiar the hospital becomes; the fear, helplessness and exhaustion never feel normal.

My daughter continued having lots of mini seizures throughout the night, so the hospital admitted her. I eventually came home and slept, trying to recharge myself ready for another day.

The following morning, I got her wheelchair out of the garage and headed back to the hospital.

The consultant was rude to my daughter and said that her seizures were down to her mental health. In my opinion, she got it soooooo wrong. My daughter’s condition and medical history are far more complicated than that, and it was upsetting to see everything she experiences dismissed so quickly.

The consultant agreed that my daughter could temporarily leave the hospital to attend a liver scan at another hospital, which had been booked for ages. When we arrived at the second hospital, however, they told us that the first hospital should not have allowed her to leave.

I explained that the consultant had approved it. I was simply following the instructions we had been given. Apparently, I now needed to coordinate communication between two hospitals as well. Shall I put on a lanyard and start doing ward rounds?

After the scan and yet another seizure, we returned to the first hospital. I got her some lunch and hoped that, after some food and rest, she would be well enough to come home.

Somehow, I managed to get to my friend’s birthday barbecue that evening. It was lovely to see everyone, relax for a while and have a few glasses of rosé. For a brief moment, I felt almost normal.

The hangover had already started by the time I got home. Apparently, I no longer need to wait until the following morning for one. How efficient of my ageing body.

But before I could even get through the door, my daughter went into another seizure.

So there we were again, in another ambulance and on our way back to hospital.

A birthday barbecue, a few glasses of rosé and another blue-light journey. Could life not have allowed me one complete evening off?

After she had been treated, we finally left the hospital at 3am. I got into bed at 3.30am, completely exhausted and hoping that nobody, anywhere, needed anything from me for at least six hours.

The next day, my daughter was recovering — and so was I.

She was dealing with the aftermath of the seizures, while I had what I can only describe as fibro flu: pain, stiffness and the sort of exhaustion that makes lifting a cup of tea feel like an Olympic event.

I also stopped taking hydroxychloroquine for the second time. Even when taking it only every other day, I was still experiencing blocked ears, dizzy spells and generally feeling dreadful. I couldn’t imagine how I would have felt taking it twice a day.

Then my sister told me that it hadn’t made any difference to her pain. I know medication affects everyone differently, but at that particular moment, her experience just summed it all up for me. My body had filed an official complaint, rejected the medication, and apparently copied in senior management. 

I will, of course, let my rheumatology team know. Living with chronic pain is difficult enough without taking something that makes me feel even worse and has at least 50 side effects.

By Friday, my daughter and I were both resting and recovering. I was looking forward to spending time with the family at Friday night dinner. After the week we had experienced, sitting around a table together, eating, talking and simply being with the people I love felt like exactly the medicine I needed.

Fibromyalgia has taught me that my body has limits, although life frequently ignores them. Being a mum has taught me that even when I feel completely broken, I will somehow find the strength to get up, get the wheelchair out and keep going.

You might assume that, after the first car boot sale left me feeling as though I had been run over by a lorry for the grand profit of £2.30, I would have spent the following Sunday resting.

You would be wrong.

Sunday arrived, and apparently I had learned absolutely nothing because we were up again at 5am for another car boot sale.

It was nine degrees and absolutely freezing, despite the forecast promising it would reach 25 degrees later. I was pleased that I had brought my scarf, although what I really needed was my winter coat, gloves and possibly a portable radiator.

Nothing says “summer car boot sale” quite like standing in a field at ridiculous o’clock, wrapped in a scarf and wondering whether hypothermia is included in the entrance fee.

I had also managed to leave all the denim at home. Yes, the shorts and jeans we had brought to sell were sitting comfortably in the garage while we stood shivering beside the rest of our summer clothes.

Excellent planning, Charlotte. Absolutely flawless.

I had already visited the portaloos. My mum said the toilets were much better at this boot sale, but I beg to differ. There may have been at least nine of them, but they were still absolutely revolting. Apparently, having a wider selection of disgusting toilets is considered an improvement.

Despite the freezing start and the missing denim, the car boot sale was actually quite good. Then the clouds parted, the sun appeared and suddenly it was boiling. I went from needing a winter coat to feeling as though I was being cooked alive beside a clothes rail.

British weather: four seasons before lunchtime.

By 11.30am, things had become quiet and people were starting to pack up, so we decided to follow suit.

That was when the real entertainment began.

The car wouldn’t start.

Earlier in the morning, it had already been doing all sorts of strange things with the hazard lights. When I pressed the button on, however, the engine was completely dead.

Naturally, I went straight into panic mode, with sweat pouring down my face despite having spent the morning complaining that I was freezing.

I called the breakdown, but the car boot team kindly offered to jump-start the car. Once it was running, I drove it over to the gate. I stopped the car, and the hazard lights immediately went berserk with the car alarm beeping.

My daughter and I took our chairs out of the car and sat beside it, waiting for the breakdown service like two women enjoying the world’s least relaxing picnic.

We initially thought the breakdown would arrive by 1.50pm, but the estimated time was then changed to 2.50pm. By that point, the field would have been locked, potentially leaving us, the car and our two folding chairs trapped inside.

Cue panic number two.

The car boot team jump-started the car again and told us to drive it down to the nearby Shell garage. My daughter and I genuinely wondered whether the car was about to blow up.

We set off with the alarm screaming and the hazard lights flashing. I somehow managed to drive straight past the Shell garage, then past a country pub, before making the questionable decision to take a chance and drive home for the next 30 minutes.

Not my finest motoring decision, but by that stage my brain had packed up before the car boot sellers had.

Thankfully, the hazard lights eventually stopped flashing, and the alarm stopped screaming. We made it home safely, and I called the breakdown to ask them to come to my home address instead.

After the pitch fee, we finished the day with a grand total loss of £6.70.

So, over two car boot sales, I have aggravated my fibromyalgia, upset my arthritic hand, frozen in a field, boiled in the sun, survived a selection of revolting portaloos, forgotten all the denim, nearly been locked behind a gate and driven home in a car performing its own emergency light-and-sound show.

We have officially decided to knock the car boot sales on the head, even though we genuinely enjoyed doing them, and I think it might rain next Sunday…

When I finally got home, I was craving one of my homemade chocolate cookies. I opened the freezer and voilà — there was a portion of cookie dough waiting to be put straight into the oven.

After a day of freezing, boiling, forgetting the denim, losing £6.70 and wondering whether my car was about to explode, a warm chocolate cookie felt less like a treat and more like essential medical care.

Honestly though, I may have failed to plan almost everything else that day, but freezer cookie dough? That was a moment of absolute genius.

What is it they always say? Diets start on Monday.