Ellen MacArthur keeps me going in the early hours. At the point where I am so tired that I have found myself napping while my twins breast-feed simultaneously, I imagine being on the Antarctic on Christmas Day with only packet soup to eat and a mast that needs repairing, and I suddenly feel a whole lot more lively.

Being permanently tired is just one aspect of my new life, having no time to return phone calls is another, and going for days without a trip outside my postcode is definitely a novelty. Welcome to the world of the very proud mother of five-week-old twins.

After 37 weeks of pregnancy, on July 28 in the last half-hour of the day, my son Reuben and then my daughter Lois were born 16 minutes apart. In spite of my best efforts — sex, acupuncture, reflexology and champagne — I hadn’t managed to go into labour naturally so, on the evening of July 27, I was induced.

Two hours after the induction I was showing no signs of labour so my team left me in my hospital bed to get a good night’s sleep. Actually, I think they left to get themselves a good night’s sleep. The obstetrician Professor Nicholas Fisk, the midwife Jenny Smith, and my husband Kenny had stayed to see if the first pessary had worked and, one by one, when they were satisfied that nothing was happening, they had left, all promising to see me early in the morning.

However, at 1am, within an hour of Kenny arriving home, I was phoning him to come back. We handled the first couple of hours of labour ourselves, Kenny inventing amazing stories to get me through the pain barrier (they involved me cycling up hills, running marathons and picturing our son making his way down the birth canal) but, as so often happens with an induction, the contractions come on thick and fast and I was experiencing one every 90 seconds. I tried to wait a while before I called Jenny. She had delivered two babies already that week (it was only Wednesday) and I wanted her to get some good rest. But, at 3am, I had reached my limit and made the call. By 4am, we were all in the birth room with the gas and air being used regularly, mainly by me.

With our favourite tunes playing on the iPod and our oil-burner filling the room with the smell of roses, things settled down. But, by 10am, with the contractions coming frequently, I was still only 2cm (1in) dilated. With hindsight, I think that I was having too much fun; the gas and air had taken my attention away from the job in hand. I practised the various “labour walks” as suggested in Gowri Motha’s book The Gentle Birth Method (Thorsons, £14.99).

Pacing the corridor like a camel, I visualised the cervix getting thinner and thinner. I also meditated, but my progress was excruciatingly slow.

So it was decided that I should have my waters ruptured. I was going to have to have an epidural at some stage — this was part of a deal with Professor Fisk, as there is a greater chance of having to have an emergency C-section with twins — and so the anaesthetist was called. Within an hour I was experiencing a very different kind of labour. My contractions slowed right down, my body was swelling in front of my eyes as the epidural was pumped into me and I was less mobile.

But I was determined to avoid a C-section and visualised my first baby pushing his head down ready to make his way into the world.

Jenny told us that an hour in labour is like ten minutes in normal life and before we knew it the sun was starting to set. I was examined again and told that I was still only 4cm dilated. It was 8pm and Professor Fisk delivered the news I was dreading; if things didn’t improve by 10pm I would be heading into theatre for a Caesarean.We were all deflated; hope for my natural delivery was fading and I started to try to get my head around the prospect of a C-section. I was told to get an hour’s sleep and everyone left me. I visualised, I prayed and I cried a little, but I didn’t sleep.

What happened next was a small miracle. After two hours, Professor Fisk came back to examine me; Kenny and Jenny had returned and we waited for his verdict. After what felt like several minutes, he said: “You’re fully dilated; it’s almost time to push.” It was as joyous as being told that I was pregnant. You wait all day for a couple of centimetres and then six come at once. An hour later, after about 40 minutes of pushing, our son Reuben made his way into the world.

He came headfirst and everything was as perfect as we could have hoped for.

I thought that I might be allowed a few minutes to have a cup of tea and a slice of toast, and maybe a pat on the back but, very quickly, I was being asked to start pushing our daughter Lois out. She was “breach” and her heartbeat was slowing, so there was no time to chat about Reuben. She came out feet first and was on my chest in what seemed like seconds. Our family had arrived safely. We were as high as kites and I’d had the perfect birth experience that I had craved. I can’t imagine ever achieving endorphins like it again.