The last entertaining of the season is done. Alas, as soon as the bottles were opened, the drink went straight to my head. So I really can't tell if it was a good do or a bad. The fish pie was too dry, that's for sure. But as the last guests left forty minutes ago, they were full of compliments:-) Filling the dishwasher, my own cheer fizzled out. All day I've had a sore throat. And been sneezing. I fear a lurgy is lurking. As they departed for Oxford, the kids were sneezy too. It must have been all the air kissing at Christmas. On the actual day, we had a no-show. Instead, the missing guest sent two cryptic texts. Claiming to have hit problems in Barnet. Despite living in Brixton... And not a word since! The dog who turned up uninvited was a poor conversational substitute:-o It was strange too, to have the festive bird arrive ready cooked. With a family of four from Camden Town. Who'd taken it upon themselves to supply and roast it. All morning I'd missed the rich aroma of yuletide flesh rising through the house. "It makes the day," I whined. We won't be job-sharing the jollies again:-o On Boxing Day, lunch with my friend H. It was a stonking meal and we all had fun despite her wonderful mother who this time last year was smoking, drinking whisky and playing charades, now being wheelchair-bound. The old lady winced with pain as her daughter wrapped her up to go home at the end of the day. "This is my last Christmas," she said without emotion. "I hope so, Mummy," said H, sadly.

At last, a Best Christmas Album Ever, that really is. David Bowie and Johnny Mathis booming through the house on a Saturday morning. Bliss. This afternoon, The Enchanted Pig at the Young Vic. With these small joys are the season's blessings given. On Thursday night, the Christmas spirit kicked in. At The Berkeley with the cocktail posse. Given the prices and location, the fare was unforgivably dull. Vodka mixed with cucumber and iced tea. After a couple of humdingingly ghastly glasses of gloop, I opted for a smoothie with a large shot. One of the cocktailers is divorcing. She arrived forty pounds lighter, looking like Barbie. Meanwhile, a tall, portly woman was being sick in the corner. Her group was quickly and politely ejected. "That woman could have pulled," said one of our new companions. "There was a man who kept saying he wanted to touch her. He asked to buy them all champagne, but she was so drunk, she ignored him." Barbie and I exchanged puzzled looks. "Maybe she didn't like him?" I said. "But champagne! He was so rich," oozed our companion. "That's no reason to accept," said Barbie. Different schools of thought, clearly:-o Yesterday, a social in Willesden had us enjoying our first mulled wine of the season. Schools were on the agenda there, too. Lots of competitive undercurrents running through innocuous smalltalk about teenagers and exams. "I'm starting to feel it's Christmas," the youngest said. I nodded. "Me too.":-)

Christmas is coming. The goose is getting fat. But enough of me. Finally on Friday we bought a tree. "It feels fake," my eldest said, hanging baubles. "It's not the tree that's fake," I said, "It's us." Despite playing White Christmas on a loop, we can't get the mood right. On Saturday, Rodin at the Royal Academy. I was drawn to a sculpture of an old woman. She who was once the helmet maker's beautiful wife. I burst into tears. It's been a long year:-o That night the X Factor Final. Feigning illness I skipped cocktails in Wandsworth to curl up alone with prosecco and chocolate. Four hours of Simon Cowell. Joy;-) News spread. By the second half of the doings, I had three companions. We cheered, ranted and got pissed. What uplift when Leona won! Sunday night was similarly hijacked. The girls were freshly returned from Oxford when a local newcomer dropped by. Bringing with her a teenage son. Hormone levels immediately surged chez nous. By the end of the night the eldest had a gig with his band. The goodbyes, in the early hours, were genuinely warm... Last night, my ex ma-in-law came for tea. And gave me my second poinsettia of the season. Why? Later we were joined by a prize bitch. And her owner. Who arrived in a nineteen-twenties feather headdress. Which she gifted to my youngest. "Don't let her ruin it," she whispered, "It's solid silver and cost a hundred quid." I must remember to hide it when the cleaner's doing the dusting;-)

Yesterday I met a professional storyteller for breakfast. At the Serpentine Lido. Which, funnily enough, forms the backdrop for my own story. As a child, Hyde Park was my garden. With my best friend, Marieca, I picnicked in the sand on Rotten Row while ponies cantered past. At the police stables, Riecy made a career decision. "When I grow up, I'm going to be a mounted policewoman." We'd gossip for hours on the steps of the Albert Memorial. And chase around the museum. Which is now the gallery. Speakers Corner, the Italian gardens, Peter Pan... Happy days. One winter morning, I tested the ice on the Serpentine. And lost my welly as it gave way. Looking out across that same water yesterday, I felt great sadness. My girls have visited the Himalayas, Sri Lanka, and every part of Europe. But all they know of London's parks are the playgrounds. When they want to disappear, they enter My Space. Where is the constancy?:-o Last night I was back at the Lower Ground Bar. For Comedy Night. After Googling the painter whose Norfolk scene I've bought. And discovering her namesake was topping the bill there. After his passably amusing set, I excitedly inquired if they were related. He shrugged, "Maybe she's married to a cousin?" No happy ending there then! But Marieca had one. She really did join the Met. Though she gave up on horses. When a car ran us over on a zebra crossing. But that's another story;-)

Today has been a strange amalgam of total indolence and ferocious industry. The whole interspersed with manic bouts of carbohydrate consumption. In between sending off CVs, investigating social inclusion grants and exchanging pleasantries with commissioning editors, I've been stretched out corpulently like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, watching the rain, listening to the creak of floorboards, and wondering where the hours go... This morning I fell out with the postman. Who shoved a failed delivery note through my door. While I was just yards away. In the kitchen. He then hotfooted it. "I rang and knocked but there was no answer," he lied when I confronted him. Thirty seconds later. At his car. My bare feet were cold and rain was seeping up the legs of my jeans. I left it. Later, the woman across the road called. "I heard about your row with the postman," she said. "Will you complain about him? I have." Postie wars at Christmas. What great timing! Yesterday I went for drinks next door. To the brilliant dollybird with the Osborne and Little wallpaper. I arrived in full war paint. Imagining cocktails with the city crowd. And found a floor littered with babies. And the chairs filled with sleeping thirty-somethings. Can one apply for ASBOs on the basis that one's neighbours are too bloody boring? Come back Kylie and Jason, all is forgiven...

Out on the town, we become intertwined with a group of celebrating produce providers. Fruit and veg, that sort of thing. "What kind of company are you?" inquires the MD, sitting alongside for a little flirt. I demur. "We're not a company. We're the Menopausal Posse from northwest London." His eyes fire up. "That's great!" he bellows. "We can't get any of you pregnant!" News spreads like wildfire. Our table in a Spitalfields tapas bar takes on a peculiarly festive air. Produce providers creep up and posit themselves among us. One elderly man keeps kissing my hand. "Don't take this the wrong way," he says, "But I used to fantasise about you when I was a kid." Bloody hell, I think. If he's younger than me, what do I look like? Nonplussed, I turn to the boss. "Give this man a rise," I say, "He's just made my night." The boss gives me a nudge and winks. "I think you've given him quite a few rises already." At eleven, the posse is decanted into the cold night air. Six go home. Six set out in search of a dancefloor. The streets are heaving. Young people queueing round the block at club entrances. "I feel old and my feet hurt," says the glass-half-empty Possette. "Oh do shut up," we all shout. We end up in the old Trumans Brewery. Zoned out to trance music. It's not ideal... Back in the people carrier, we consume a box of Celebrations. And get lost for an hour. Trying to drop one of our group at her car. "I wish I could remember where I parked," she wails. She's a lawyer. "I hope your memory's better on the smallprint," I say.

Rolling out of Hakkasan, I couldn't help but notice the looks I was receiving. Uplifted by a Black Forest Martini and two hours of glorious gossip, I made the most of the attention. Aha, thought I, this low cut shirt clearly does it for the boys! It was only on the tube home that I looked down. And found large globs of dim sum. Dried in artex folds on my chest... It was a bad day in terms of exposure. On the way to to the restaurant I'd stopped and shopped at Boots. As the chap behind the counter zapped the Mum Rollette, I grabbed it from his hand. "I forgot to put any on," I said. And promptly reached inside my shirt to remedy the situation. He was purple with anxiety;-) Tonight the progeny and I added another duff theatrical experience to the list of shame. Caroline or Change, at the National. We were a bit confused by the storyline. Which was anorexic. And refusing all medical help. As for the music, my youngest summed it up: "a continuous reprise." And it was. Like the first paragraph of a novel being constantly, and randomly, reposited throughout a narrative so all context is lost and content compromised. Over lunch we'd talked writing. My companion suggested a return to fiction. It's tempting. But I'm still blocked by a mix of pique, rejection fatigue, and an imperative to earn fast bucks. I told her about my various money-making schemes. "I'm like Sybil," I said. "I have nine different voices all telling me to do different things." Her expression suggested I'm running out of excuses. Ooer. Perhaps I am?

This morning in the Post Office an old lady flipped. She started with some standard racist fare about parasitic entities. Bile aimed at a passing East European. Whom she wrongly accused of queue jumping. She then moved to a general assault on Allah and Krishna. For the delectation of the Asians who run the place. I was about to step in when the black guy queueing between us raised a warning eyebrow. I read into this, that she was nuts. Sure enough, she got to the highpoint of her oration. A tirade on 'machineoids'. Her vocabulary was astonishing. Complex adjectives flew from her mouth - colourful, hate-filled, staggeringly broad. And yet, when her turn came, she was as meek as a lamb. "Does she always do that?" I asked the counter clerk. He nodded. "It was good entertainment," I said. He looked at me bleakly. Once is funny. Every week is soul-destroying. At the corner, I ran into an old mate. Talking with one of my neighbours. We had a jolly ding-dong about literacy before she rushed off. The neighbour then made me tea. After six years of mere hellos! We discussed kids. My expert subject after a toddler's party on Saturday. And Sunday lunch with five 3 to 15-year-olds who went off and played very noisy hide and seek while the adults scoffed. "We wanted more than one, but I've lost so many," she said sadly. It was a relief to return home and close the door on the world:-o

Yesterday, a coup de foudre. While negotiating bedpans and leaking bandages. In the morning, I visited my nonagenarian friend. The one who had the stroke. She keeps up the whisky and cigars but, alas, has given up work. Her home is filled with hoists and ramps and the paraphernalia of deterioration. The beaming Philippina who looks after her is noticeably rough in her handling. "I prefer men," sighed the hostess. "They're so much more gentle." I put out the Scrabble. The game never started... Returning home, I checked on the progress of my eBay dealings. Then set off for the Royal Free. Where my 87-year-old neighbour was seeping into his bedlinen. From the groin. He yanked up his nightie, exposing a suppurating wound. "It took four hours, and it was hell." The Muslim man in the next bed prays in the middle of the night. "There's a lot of calling out," my neighbour said. "He wakes us all up." On the way out I stopped again at a painting displayed in the entrance. A simple oil, supposedly of the lowlands. Norfolk Summer. It was quite lovely. I've nowhere to put it I thought, stepping out into winter sunshine. It was a beautiful afternoon. Suddenly I was suffused with certainty. I went back. And bought the painting. Which I'll collect in January. I can see it in my mind's eye even now. Joy! As for the cost: eBay will finance it. One must always follow instinct in matters of the heart;-)

For the second time in four days I found myself having a long and argumentative lunch. On Saturday it was climate change. Today it was comprehensive schooling. The punters in the Wet Fish Cafe looked on aghast as my pal and I turned purple with rage over pumpkin tortillas. We were reconciled by the polenta cake. But that was three hours later. Returning to the midden I banged off some emails before the progeny got home. We played Scrabble. Then my ma turned up and I was off for my second outing of the day. Asian fusion shorteats and martinis. At the swanky new diner down the road. The drinks were a triumph. I shall go there again:-) Afterwards my mate and I went to the Lower Ground Bar to hear a new trumpeter called Steve Fishwick. We'd been inivited by one of his fans. Who we found in a drug induced state, sitting with a celebrated academic and his bird. A woman I knew from eons ago. And would have crossed continents to avoid. Though I didn't actually recognise her. Until she hugged me as an old friend. Perhaps I hold grudges too long? There's something romantically retro about jazz nights. The red light strobing through the smoke haze, the cramped tables, the nodding heads... It was all so moody; so mellow. We could have been in New York or Bangalore. Though it would have been impossible, of course, to walk home in five minutes from either of those locations;-)

Saturday morning, the phone rang. "Hello Gorgeous, I've lost roof tiles and I'm flooding. I won't be there for lunch." I made soothing noises. And told my eldest she'd have to make up numbers at my lunch do. We set the table for eight. Given the Noah-like rains, everyone was running late. I upset the first arrivals with my tale of the kilted comedian's theatrical death. I thought they'd laugh. It happens to us all, doesn't it? But he's their mate. You'd have thought someone had... died. Then I upset both them and the second arrivals. By defending a reviled rightwing meeja harpie. Who's my mate. "How can you bear her?" one asked. And literally shrank from me. Things were not going well. Pouring vino recklessly I prayed the final guests would soon turn up. The phone rang. It was the male of the missing party. "I'm making a treacle tart for tonight, so don't defrost one of your standbys." "Tonight?" I bellowed. "It's lunch!" Silence. Holding my emotions in check, I decided to make the best of a bad lot. Roast lamb with lots of argument about and around global warming. On which one of the guests is a world expert. They'll soon bore of this, I thought. And then I can go out. Hurrah: it's Saturday! But they didn't bore. And the last two stayed till eleven. So the only place I went was bed:-o

Last night, a charity auction. I picked up the pal with the tickets. "You'll spot my cleavage before the car," I warned. "You'll see mine blocking the office window," she responded. Like a pair of turkeys being fattened for Christmas we drove into town. Every space around the venue was diplomatic badges only. So we dumped the car by the Savoy. And got a cab. On arrival, we were greeted by the papparazzi. Who, it turned out, were stalking Liz Hurley. She passed like a wraith: so pale, her features are bleached out. The boyfriend, however, is scrumptious... Two glasses of champagne and smalltalk with a billionaire lifted our spirits as we headed into dinner. Hours of it. And a worthy film. And a kilted Sikh MC who died a thousand comic deaths. Which was embarrassing. Because I know him. And can't wait to tell his mates;-) The auction was pretty impressive. But it didn't impress my friend. "When we did our hedge fund dinner, they were bidding in leaps of twenty thousand," she said. Which is how her excellent cause netted a million in half an hour. Last night's event was modest in comparison. The audience only boasted bankers. So the bids went up in mere 500s. Which isn't to say they didn't do well... Afterwards we bought raffle tickets and enjoyed thirty glorious minutes of Rory Bremner live on stage before walking the half mile to the car. In high heels. And pouring rain. I coughed all night:-(

Having bought concert tickets for 2/6 on ebay, I have sold on half my wardrobe for the price of a Starbucks frappuccino and a chicken with honey mustard wrap. That's what you call karma;-) The problem is, how to send posh jackets in the post? Tonight I devised a Blue Peter type solution involving black bin bags, but there's something peculiarly non-U about the effect. I may have to use a foreign post office tomorrow. So I don't get strange looks. Talking of strange looks, yesterday in The Wet Fish Cafe, I ran into an old schoolfriend. One not seen in years. She looked terrible. Drink, I'd guess. But I didn't have my glasses to hand for closer inspection. Alas, we were both with mates, so I didn't pass on my latest gossip. Which concerned a mutual friend. Who I unearthed on Friday. On the networking website. It's all happening there! I'd spotted a man with a very distinct surname lurking in a sidebar. So I sent a note. Saying a girl with the same moniker had gone to my school. "She's not your sister, is she?" I chanced. Blow me down, he replied at once. "As it happens, she is," he said, "She's changed her name and runs The London School of Striptease." I looked at the site. Burlesque, pole, and plain old erotic - she teaches the lot. What joy! That said, I didn't have my glasses to hand for closer inspection...

For the past two days I've done sweet FA. My only client is delighted with her manuscript. And we meet to thrash out detail tomorrow. On Monday, I'll be back back in panic mode. For the moment, I'm chilled. Last night the run of theatrical bad luck ended. With Deadeye at the Soho Theatre. Some of the casting was odd. But some just perfect. One man said of the male lead, "He was like a piece of music playing out in front of me." Fantastic:-) Earlier, I'd attended the launch reception. None of the sponsors of the piece, part of a two week festival, bothered to show. How wonderful to be so rich, you can hand over thousands and not care how it's spent! I decided, there, that one reception a week is enough. So today I've sent an apology to Children in Need. To say I'm too ill to attend tomorrow night's jolly. Lots of hammy stars glowing from easy karmic kudos. I took the kids to the actual show two years ago. Cher and Rod Stewart both sang. "These are musical icons," I whispered. They nodded politely. Then, a wizened orange man called David Dickinson, walked on. I'd never heard of him. The girls went crazy! They are compulsive watchers of Bargain Hunt repeats... This year, the invite was party only. And it falls on our weekend together. So we'll make a donation and head out for Borat and a curry instead. This evening I'm attending a talk by the turbanned warrior queen from a previous blog. The one who transforms the lives of kids at the sharp end. It seems to me that there's no logic in my supporting other children unless my conscience is clear about my own...

Tonight my eldest said, "What I love about our family, is there's always something weird happening." She was referring to a call I'd received. Just before a handful of mates arrived for dinner. Two of them announcing the date for their civil ceremony. Midsummer's Day. Bless:-) I was glazing the chicken and leek pie when the phone went. It was my stepmother. Calling from Germany. Across three decades. To apologise for ruining my life. "You didn't," I said. That's weird, right? Regular readers of this blog will guess that the call was initiated by the discovery of my half-brother a few weeks back. On a networking website. His mother wanted me and the kids, and my mother, to visit her. I couldn't talk for long. Because people were at the door. But I was charmed. In between courses, I called my ma. "If she's invited us, let's go," she said. "Are you sure?" I asked. "It wasn't her fault," she replied, "He lied to her as well as to us." My stepmother had suggested we visited later this month. But it's the run up to crimble... Later? Why not? Things happen for a reason, don't they? She knew about my life. Had read my articles, my books, my website... "My husband," she said, "He kept things inside him. This would not have been possible when he was alive." She's right. Because I wouldn't have gone.

About twenty years ago, I got chucked out of the press box at a Bruce Springsteen concert. For shouting "Show us your willie, Bruce." Which upset the great and the good who were enjoying free hospitality. Tonight we all got to let our hair down. "I sort of feel cheated," said one of our number as we headed home. "It's like having the most sublime night of intimate lovemaking, and then realising he did it last night with someone else and got the same amount of pleasure. How can he prefer any other audience or any other performance to tonights?" The audience was a mix of blokes bellowing his name so it sounded like rounds of boos. Which was very confusing. And women - like me - on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Three hours of yelping everytime he looked in our direction... I was actually jumping up and down, shouting "Pick me, pick me!" Despite being twenty feet up the side. Three hours of hot tunes. Three hours of non-stop bouncing. Three hours of excessive dilation. A lot of seats will need wiping down, I can tell you;-)

On Friday night, for the third week on the trot, I walked out of a theatre at the interval. This time I'd gone to see The Alchemist. With my broken-toed mate. Who returned to NYC this morning. I wanted to give her a really good night out. To make up for the injury. Which happened when our dodgy shower head fell onto her feet. Ten minutes in, I was fighting revulsion. The acting was great. But one of the leads had a saliva problem. He didn't speak, he sprayed. When he shouted, big gobs of spit literally fell to the floor. I was pinned back in my seat for fear of stray winds. At halftime I ran for the foyer. With Hopalong in hot pursuit. "I've had enough," I said, "Haven't you?" In pouring rain we repaired to the Oxo tower where raspberry and white-peach bellinis restored our health. And then we had a slap-up supper. Which just about, I think, counted as atonement;-) Tonight, I saw The Queen. The film, that is. The Diana bits were really sad. I've always thought my misery at the time was down to mass hysteria, but clearly I just have a heart that's touched by the trivial:-o Sunday night, it's Bruce at Wembley. I placed two joke bids on ebay for really good tickets. And got both sets! This week's people carrier to the hallowed halls of fame, will be a spark-free zone. Though I suspect there may be a surfeit of denim...

Up with the lark. After a night tossing and turning. It was the dodgy Yemeni meal last night. In a Paddington backstreet. With the ex and the progeny. After simultaneous parent's evenings had confirmed we distilled pure brilliance together. As he paid, I said, as I often do, "You were the best husband, and you're the best ex-husband." And I made a mental note not to complain that a member of his new dynasty has drawn on my sitting room wall. Indeed, I keep seeing fingermarks and scrapes everywhere. It must be the light at this time of year. Or maybe it's that I'm squinting all the time. From two weeks at the Mac. And I can't yet give up the ghost. One chapter remains. And then the checking. And tidying. No rewrites, though. That's up to the person whose name's on the book jacket;-) Talking jackets... On Sunday night I was hiding in the back of the people-carrier to Wembley, when one of my mates called. "You're seeing Cliff Richard?" she shouted, agog. "I hope you've got rubber soles!" Surely, I thought, she's confusing her bands? Rubber soles? "From all the synthetic fibres! When the women run for the stage, they're sparking..." My companions in the car were certainly sparking. Though ironically so. I think. During one of Cliff's particularly ghastly homilies followed by a song called Soldier in the Field of Love, one of them texted me across the row: Are you a soldier in the field of love? My laugh echoed around the arena. Power to all our friends...

Last night I took the youngest to a show called Till the Fat Lady Sings. As soon as she did sing, we knew it was all over. In the interval I suggested doing a runner. "If I put my foot down, we'll make the end of X Factor Extra," I said. In our household, this is an inducement on a par with the introduction of Christine Keeler to John Profumo. We drove home in a state of relieved hysteria. The show put every X Factor comment into context. The singer was a one-trick pony, like Ray. Even her Beatles numbers were sung as opera. She was ungainly and dead behind the eyes, like Dionne. She was dull, like the MacDonald Brothers. Who yet again defied all notions of fairness and decency to stay in the competition. How can we combat black-white racism when white-white racism is endemic on this island? We should boycott Scotland! Returning home we discovered the delightful Ashley was out. "I think," my youngest said, "That though he's the best singer, he isn't meeting his own potential. That's why he didn't get the votes." I've always told the kids that it's not their brilliance that will bring success, but the level of their ambition. Delighted with her presience, I gave her what was left of the Halloween sweeties;-)

Another week, another blur. I cannot account for the time. Somewhere in London is a wormhole. That must be how, last night, I found myself back in the 1970s. It started with farce. Literally. Donkey's Years at the Comedy theatre. Only one set of trousers was dropped. But there was a lot of door action. I tittered my way through. Afterwards my companion and I sauntered along to Chez Victor. On entering, I sensed all was not well. It was the Chianti bottles... The menu came. Avocado with prawns, chicken Kiev, mozarella and tomato. "It's very seventies," said my mate. "It's very Italian," said I. The obligatory flirting waiter arrived. "This is supposed to be a French restaurant." I said. He winked. "We are mixed French and Italian, and I am recommending to you the Italian carrots." After a night of farce, I was on euphmism watch. I considered his carrots, which were more baby than bunch, and declined. Just then I spotted scampi on the menu. And zabaglione. And decided there are some traditions worth revisiting. My mate, who had chosen the venue because she wished to share a louche story with me and felt the nearby Chinese cafes were not conducive to secrets-sharing, started to relax. "I feel like we'll go outside and everyone will be in velvet jackets," she said, blowing a smoke circle. At that moment my mobile went. It was a former schoolgate mum. "I've got tickets for Cliff Richard next Sunday night and one of them has your name on it," she said. It's at moments like this I wish for Marty McFly and a safe passage Back to the Future...

Yesterday I lunched in Hampstead. With one of my mates. From teenage to ice age, we binged, bonked and buccaneered together. But somewhere along the line our interests diverged. We just don't get each other any more. I'm in the limbo between mee-ja and mum. My days change according to demands and need. She's an IT wizard. She plans everything from her Cornflakes to where she'll be at five on Friday. She despairs that I'm gung-ho and opinionated. And thinks me a profligate hothead. I'm depressed by her piety and obsessive need for order. I see her life as a flow diagram. Yet I love her dearly. And she loves me. And there's the rub. We're like sisters. Which brings me to Christmas. For 15 years she and her man have come to us. This year, I want to end the arrangement. I suspect she does too. The problem is, how do we effect the break without umbrage or embarrassment? What makes it especially difficult is that my kids and my mum say I'm wrong. We are family, they say... After yesterday's lunch I met the posse for tea. "For goodness sake," one of them snapped, "It's not as if they'll be the only people there." True. Indeed, last year we increased numbers by three just an hour before carving the turkey. But... Oh God. I'm going to send her an email and see what she wants....

On Friday night I took the kids to the opera. La Traviata at the Coliseum. Dreadful. The leads were flat and couldn't act. The libretto is up against Borak for comedy script of the year. The set was pure IKEA. But we had fun. So much so that the girls suggested selling the house, buying a small place in Islington, and using the leftovers to get seats in the stalls for future productions... Funnily enough, I was in Islington yesterday. To see Tom and Viv at The Almeida. I stopped at every estate agent's window on Upper Street... Tom and Viv: weird genius and nutty muse. Who gives a monkeys? We escaped at half time and went in search of: a) martinis (me) b) seats (the mate with two broken toes) and c) blokes (the friend who's been on heat all month). By the time we'd found a bar on the Green offering all three components, I was on heat too. She's clearly at the infectious stage. Over dinner we got hit on by an entire family, led by the 23-year-old son. It culminated with the mum, as film-star gorgeous as her boy, joining our table. Wrong result! Afterwards, we tried to recall relationships begun from bar or club encounters. Zero. The odd snog, yes. Relationships? No. Heat girl said it was so bad, she was trying Guardian ads. This could be a winner. Many years ago one of my older mates ran an ad with the strapline: 'Pick on someone your own age' It worked. They're still together;-)

Another day, another embrace. With another large woman of good heart. At Brixton Academy. It was a high security night. The youngest and I queued ten minutes around the block to get in. We were boxed into boys and girls. As we entered the foyer, a security woman started singing. A song with my name. From Barefoot in the Park. When Robert Redford's stuck on the roof. And needs Jane Fonda to open the skylight. Tonight's delivery was more Chaka Khan than Hollywood. And she carried on singing while giving my pockets a once over. "You always make me smile" she said, ushering me in, "Enjoy the show." She was so joyous, I hugged her. My youngest was a bit put out. "Who was that?" "I haven't a clue," I said, "But she did the same two years back, when I came here with your sister. She deserves a hug." The ensuing concert was a fitting end to a day of aural torture. Earlier my ma and I had spent five hours in the car getting to and from darkest Surrey. It should have been three. But we got lost in the middle. And it was raining. And all the time there was a terrible whining beneath us. Either the fan belt's gone, or the exhaust's bust. The bad news is, it requires attention. And it's MOT time. I wonder where I can purchase a monkey to dance while I busk on my organ? Tonight's band, Panic at the Disco, put on a well choreographed show. But drowned in their own feedback. They had the reverse problem. A surfeit of monkeys but their organs went phut:-(

They say you're only as good as your last show. So today, I'm seriously good:-) Hurrah! On the way back from the Beeb, I passed a large and very colourful turbanned woman in a voluminous handkerchief skirt. She was getting out of a cab. By Waitrose. I wound down my window. "Are you K?" I shouted. She looked around, surprised. "Yes." "Stay there!" I said, pulling onto the double yellows. Leaping out of the car I embraced her with great vigour. It's fair to say that if she could've run, she probably would. "You helped me. Three years ago when one of my girls was having a difficult time," I told her. I reminded her of that night. She'd heard my tale of woe from a mutual friend. And, despite running one of the country's biggest, most dangerous, and overburdened youth projects, dealing with kids whose lives are blighted from birth, she picked up the phone and talked me through my chattering-class crisis. I'm not sure if she remembered the detail. But I do. And she deserved that positive Saturday morning hug:-) Plus, I volunteered to run language workshops for her clients. And she seemed keen. Karma in action! Returning home, I caught up on news of my Ma's twisted knee. "Perhaps you should rest it this weekend?" I said hopefully. She refused. Which means we'll be off to a Ruby Wedding lunch tomorrow. A family do. In Cheam. Beam me up, Mr Scott...

As I blog, a new friend of my youngest is in the house. "Oh!" she cried, walking into my office: "a leopard printed lion! How fantastic." I turned to see if she was being funny. She wasn't. "Oh I'm so stupid," she said when the penny dropped. "Leopard print's in fashion at the moment so I didn't think it was actually a leopard." She asked to inspect our shoes. Ancient footwear. "I love Timberlands. And Shellys!" To divert attention, I asked what she'd like to eat. "Salmonella," she replied. My daughter corpsed. "You mean salmon?" I asked. "No. Salmonella." I had to show her the difference on Google. "Oh," she said sadly. "That's why everyone laughs at me:-(" Moving swiftly on: yesterday I did creative writing with teenagers in Tooting. List your dreams, I said. One girl wrote "To be a doctor." Another: "To be an architect." That's an ambition, I said. You'll clearly both pull it off. Think up a dream - something that's much harder or even impossible but makes you feel good. Like curing all illness, or building an underwater city... I dream of marrying Johnny Depp, I added helpfully. No response. The boys however, came up with cracking scenarios - they were going to be galactic footballers, to mechanise the moon and stars, and one little lad wanted a school made entirely of self replicating sweets. Is that why men still dominate the big picture, while women are at the coalface as social engineers?

Better judgement is an interesting notion. We always go against it. Why? A month after the 'who should pay first date' debate, I had another outing with the same man. Flowers and brunch in Hoxton. We discussed first date scenario. And agreed to differ. He's very right-on. Everything is 50:50, everytime. In case someone ends up ten quid out of pocket long-term, I suppose. As an enthusiastic giver, and very happy recepient, it got me thinking. As my childless friends get older, they spend huge amounts on themselves. But always qualify what they spend on others. Whether it's a plumber or a parent, they seek a return on investment, either personal or material. On the other hand, friends with children - or with nurturing jobs like teaching - continue to be generous. For the pure joy of exercising the facility. It's like they become all-round parents, and the childfree regress to adolesence: what's in it for me?/why should I?/who said so? This youthful self-obsession is charming in early maturity. In middle age, it's crass. And the root of the old stereotype: sour spinsters and curmudgeonly bachelors. Of course I'm generalising. But going through my Rolodex last night, it worked as a broad rule of thumb. Which brings me back to better judgement. As my lunch companion fixed a crook-lock on the steering wheel of his common or garden hatchback, I saw the cardi and slippers in my mind's eye. But instead of running off screaming, I laughed:-(

Yesterday I did some radio. It'll be like falling off a log, I thought. But as the moment came closer, I started to fret. I'd speak too fast. Worse, I'd dry. Two of the interviewees were hitting eighty. One of them ill. And in a studio oop north. The third, we'd established, was a reluctant talker. In my drawer were four valium. Left over from the Stanstead episode in August. Why not take them I thought? They kill the nerves when I'm flying... A mistake. Listening later to the abortive verbal mess that constituted a prime time half hour, a bull in a china shop came to mind. There were so many 'sort-of's, it could have been a half hour special on sort-ofs. "You didn't sound like yourself," my mum said politely during a Nokia post-mortem. I know! I wanted to shout. I was in a tranquillized haze! And I hadn't had any coffee! Over late night raspberry martinis, one of my mates was a little more precise. "You sounded irritated." I was too squiffy to care by then. Funnily enough, after I'd slunk out of studio, tail between legs, I went to a voice control seminar. "Your emotional connection is in your solar plexus," said the instructor. Ah, I thought, That's where I went wrong. I've been connecting all day through my arse...

Tonight, I lost my keys. Again. The second time in as many weeks. This time I'd left them in a loo. At the Drill Hall. Thankfully the Hall was still open and I got them back. What a relief! Their recovery saved me returning home with a posse of strangely disorientated women. One malarial, one jet-lagged and one the designated driver. They'd insisted on coming back with me in my hour of need. A sort of sympathy sleepover. "We'll kip on the sofas," quoth they. It was a trifle surreal. Earlier we'd been celebrating news that two of our party are planning a civil marriage ceremony. Next summer. In the garden. There was an inspection of rings. One a semi-precious stone; the other a diamond so discreet one had to search for it. As it happens, one of my very dear friends is a diamond dealer. Pukka stuff from Antwerp. Her last sale was a flawless ten carat brilliant. "Wouldn't you like something bigger?" I asked. "It wouldn't suit my style," said the bride to be. True. I am so inept at understated chic - or even overstated chic for that matter - that I don't recognise it until it's pointed out:-( When I got engaged, in prehistoric times, I chose a twist. That way I got two stones;-) Funnily enough, one fell out a month before the end. As for the eternity ring - an Edwardian dazzler - it's somewhere on the A1. Where I chucked it the day we told the kids. And made it official. Cornershop were on the stereo. Brimful of Asha.

Finally it's here. Ugly beyond measure. But then, the best designers aren't fighting for jobs with Miele, Hotpoint and Bosch, are they? Tomorrow it gets plumbed in. After that, no more mentions of Chinese laundries, wet-wipe smalls and Omo brightness. Order will be restored:-) I'm hoping for some harmony too, after three days of carping around the kitchen table. We're an all woman household. Pubescent, adolescent, and perimenopausal. Three weeks out of four, it's heaven here. Then the hormonal thundercloud hoves into view... Tonight we went for a walk after dinner. We were stodged out after our second home delivery this week. Because I've not been shopping. Half a mile in, the girls fell out. End of exercise. We returned home at double speed. Does that count as aerobic? When my youngest was seven my mother took her out in the car. As they returned home she said: "Granny, you have very long periods don't you - more than a week at a time?" My mother, nonplussed, confessed she'd not menstruated for a decade or two. "You're lying, Granny," my little one replied, knowingly. "Because Mummy can't park her car when she has a period either..."

Beetroot stains are a bit of a mare when you haven't got a washing machine. A problem I should have considered before ordering my scoff tonight. But I was blinded by the light. Around Tower Bridge, that is. Which is backlit like a giant wedding cake. In the other direction, Canary Wharf winked lasciviously, a study in multi-watted phallic glory. This struck me as very odd. Because I'd pitched up at the Blue Print Cafe after a night of global warning. From the Deputy Mayor of London, no less. Further down the towpath, at the GLA's Thameside bubble, she'd told us that 75 per cent of the world's energy is used by cities. "And most cities sit on waterways." She was hosting a book launch. A valiant call to arms before melting ice-caps gobble up our low lying land masses. Including the bridge, bubble and phallus... The book is written by a mate who was sporting an Oxfam-chic striped jacket, Prince of Wales checked shirt, and a chequerboard tie. Thankfully nobody in the room was epileptic. And the book sold out. Dining with another dear friend, we gorged on the view. "I remember when you first brought me here to Butler's Wharf," I said. "It was a wilderness. You were sorting out the finances. To get the development finished. I always think of it as yours." He nodded glumly into his sea bream and radish: "So do I. It's just a bloody shame I don't collect the rents."

It was one of those days. The wrong washing machine got delivered. So I spent two hours in the launderette. Which meant I was running late on my notes from Tuesday's meeting. I'd planned an evening at the theatre. Before collecting a child from Brixton Astoria where she was moshing to Babyshambles. But I didn't finish writing in time. So I pitched up instead at a Clapham wine bar. For dinner with new people. A long story. Suffice to say, the mocha and chilli martini was strangely fab. Over risotto, we discussed my half-brother. Who I've met once, thirty years ago. I'd long forgotten his existence. Then, this afternoon, I found my father's namesake on a networking site. I checked the profile. And found a strange hybrid. An anorexic with a Boris Karloff forehead. A cautious mouth; no horse-face grin. I showed my eldest. "At least you got the looks," she said. I sent a note. "Is it coincidence, or are we related?" A confirmation came by return. My half-brother is German born and bred. And he's still there. Our shared parent, whom I saw just twice after the age of four, is dead. I imagine we'll exchange one or two perfunctory notes before smalltalk dries. How strange then, that we share the most binding thing of all. DNA:-(

Tomorrow the new washing machine arrives. So today I cleaned the utility room. All those sticky little jobs the cleaner avoids. Will the deliverymen notice? And would I have made the same effort if Argos was delivering and not John Lewis? Shame on me: I'm not sure:-o As I wiped and swept I was on the phone to my plumber. Who issued instructions on the dismantling of hoses. A man known for his parsimony, he threw in extra advice. "You've got to get those girls into cardies and woolly socks," he said. "Bills are going through the roof." As it happens, I've already had a stand-off with British Gas. Who recently demanded £260 a month on account. I rang them mid-seizure. "So sorry Madam," said the call-centre girl. "The correct monthly rate is only £104." Only! "They've got us over a barrel," my plumber ranted. As he's newly recovered from heart surgery, I didn't risk mentioning the leccy bill... Earlier, over a mocha in West Hampstead, I'd discussed poverty in Africa. With a man who's marketing a new charity. "Africa isn't a country, it's a continent," I said. "Where will you start? And if you aren't willing to challenge the core problems, what use is another set of sticking plasters for people who'll die anyway?" Years ago I read a book called Poverty and Famines by Amartya Sen. Who later won the Nobel Prize for economics. It changed my views on where and how to give, forever:-o

"Mum would you rather have the best figure in the world and the worst face, or the worst figure in the world and the best face?" As both my face and figure border on Godzilla today, there's no contest. I'd rather be a mushroom:-( I spent most of the day in the kitchen. Stressing over structure with the woman whose colourful prose I am ghostwriting into sense. At one point she said kindly: "Don't worry. If you can hang on financially till March, you'll be back in the limelight." Somewhat taken aback, I asked what she meant. "My astrologer told me," she explained. "When I asked if you were the right person for the book. She told me things weren't great so you'd be free to help." Well thank you Eva Petulengro! Somewhere in Stoke, pontificating on my birthdate. Which, it turned out, had been misremembered... That said, I got paid upfront on the basis of perceived need. I've no complaints;-) Indeed, it was a welcome diversion after the excitements of a weekend near the seaside and a visit yesterday to my youngest's school. To complain about the terrible burn she suffered during National Coffee Day. "I had no idea," the Head said, blanching at the extent of the injury. "Oh dear, this is the sort of thing Starbucks gets sued for." No apology was, or has been, forthcoming. And that's all I desire. My incensed former husband, meanwhile, has forwarded pictures of the injury to his father. Who, unfortunately for the Head, happens to be a solicitor...

A dreadful day so far. Rain, shopping, traffic jams. And a child injured and beyond my reach... I left the house at eight. And returned exhausted an hour ago. Joy! The most glorious flowers awaited me. A thank you from the woman with the novelty book. The one wanting to get on Richard & Judy. I turned the work down. But passed her jolly scribblings to some radio mates. Result:-) Meantime my youngest has been burnt by boiling tea on National Coffee Day. "It looks pretty awful," said the school nurse. "It's blistering. But she's gone back to class. I'll call again if there's a problem." I was on Regent Street at the time. Looking for Nike Air trainers. For my power-walking Ma. Who's 75 on Sunday. "If my daughter's burnt, shouldn't I come and get her?" I asked, somewhat bewildered. "There's nothing you can do," the nurse said. Sod me. What could the school have done? I am awaiting her return with trepidation... I'd started my day in Covent Garden. Getting the results from an online psychometric test. "It's a very unusual reading," said the young woman. "Really. A first." I felt the start of an inner glow. I leaned forward to savour the moment when my unique characteristics would be officially listed. She shook her head in disbelief: "To be honest, it's probably the most boring set of graphs I've ever seen.":-(

Last night I went speed networking. Two events in as many days. Torture. I think my spirit of adventure may finally have been exorcised. One woman there spent her entire time sizing up the men. She tried her charms on the organiser - a man with 'married' tatooed across his deameanour. Having failed, she said loudly: "There's no point talking with you. You don't fancy me." "You don't have to fancy someone to shag them" he replied. I laughed fit to burst. Indeed, my mate and I'd been hysterical all evening. We'd each had 90 seconds for the elevator pitch. 90 seconds x 12 people. Living death. I talked everything but business. And decided that I'm opting out. There's no point pretending. I have a problem. I love spending. But hate earning. Where is the middle ground, here? Since 8am, I've been writing a report on Tuesday's meeting. I started it yesterday. A new press strategy, centres of excellence, changing emphasis midstream... I am blinded by my own science. It isn't even due till next week! Whereas the first chapter of the book I'm writing is due on Tuesday. And we're away all weekend. And I've not writ a word. Or ghostwrit, as the case is. Ooer, we're back to exorcism. What a shame one can't turn ectoplasm into gold:-o

God Bless Starbucks. Not for their frapps, which are singlehandedly responsible for my ever thickening waste. Or for the wraps. Ditto. But for having possession of my keys. Which I left there last night. While sneaking a frapp and wrap. En route to what promised to be a turgid networking talk. And lived up to its promise. No booze! But the punters were fun. And there was a hostelry next door. So my loss didn't emerge until pub closing time. Which is long after coffee shop closing time... On the tube home, my anxieties were diverted by a young man who instructed me on the rudiments of systems mapping. My eldest, bless her, was up to let me in. Spare keys to hand, I called a cab to take me back to Liverpool Street. To reclaim the car. It was a sober ending to a sombre day. Earlier I'd counselled a friend whose boy, my shortest Godson, had broken down after 48 hours at uni and was being shipped home:-( Then the washing machine died in a frenzy of strange noises and burning smells. And I myself nearly died at the start of a strategy meeting with my mega-client. Having mounted an Eiffel Tower of steps with effortless ease, I broke out in the most horrendous sweat as soon as I sat down. I looked like Peter Sellers in that scene from the Pink Panther where his prosthetic nose starts to melt as he's playing the organ. The loss of keys after this ignominy, was small bananas... At least it's given me legitimate cause to return to Starbucks;-)

Last night a dinner party chez nous. Late afternoon I get a call. "X and I aren't coming. We've split up. I'm sorry. It would be too awful to come alone." This is unfortunate. Because I've cooked chicken and leek pie in their honour. This despite pleas from others that I change my repetoire. "You make a fantastic pie," one guest trilled when I finally dished up. "But why do you have to make so many?" A second invited couple turned out to be at war, too. Though still together. She arrived, graciously apoplectic, 90 minutes ahead of him. Thankfully, I'd put them at different ends of the table. My consort for the evening was a gay friend who announced: "I'm fed up of sex, aren't you? All that endless stoking!" I'd never thought of sex in those terms before. "I think," I said, "that it's about politics. In the bedroom the woman is necessarily the receptor, and deferring to the man feels natural and right. When two men get together, they're equal in equipment and status. The act has more serious connotations." Oi vey! Meanwhile, two media luvvies were indulging in starbursts of venom against their perceived rivals. I watched as the poor man seated between them suffered aural pulverisation by harpies. His wife said admiringly: "Your children are very good. Do they always just leave you to it?" My children aren't particularly good, but they're smart. They'd elected for a separate feast, with a friend, in the kitchen. There were moments, it must be said, when I was tempted to join them;-)

A glorious youth arrives at my door. To deliver my printing. "We've given you extra," he says proudly, "To make up for the delay." I'm charmed. 1000 letterhead. Fantastic! 1500 business cards. 1500? Hang about: I was being optimistic when I asked for three hundred... I'll use them as coasters, I think, pulling out the new writing paper eagerly. Holy moley... My heart stops. "Ummm, Colin, this paper's laid." His unmarked brow starts to furrow. "You asked for laid." I shake my head. "I changed my mind in your office, remember? I chose the weave." There is silence. He's brought riches to my door. And I'm throwing them in his face. Typical woman! We do a delicate dance around the finer points of laid and weave. Trivia too dull for even a pub quiz. "Will you be in trouble over this?" I ask. He nods: "Big trouble." I don't have the heart. "I'll take it then," I say. And write the cheque. "Do me a favour - can I have 200 weave at cost?" He shakes his head: "Better. I'll do them for free. I'll run them off when the printers go early tomorrow." Bless. As he drove away I suddenly remembered this week's story of the boy who lost his arm in the butcher's mincer. And wondered if the hapless youth actually knows how to operate an offset-litho machine. The paper looks rather good now the shock's worn off. I may call in the morning and tell him to forget it:-o

It's rude to look a gift horse in the mouth, but... On Monday I got a call asking if I'd edit a manuscript. Within five minutes, the densest tome ever written appeared in my inbox. I printed off the first twenty pages. I'm still not past page three. It's not editing that's needed. It's a rewrite. And the pruning of 30,000 words... A second tome arrives in the post tomorrow. Written by a woman who wants to have it featured on Richard and Judy. As Ian McEwan has trouble getting onto R&J, I am somewhat bemused. I've got lots of book projects. I could pay you a retainer and you could help with them all, she emailed. The gift horse was looking distinctly Trojan. Let me read it before I comment, I replied, surlily, if there is such a word. The only words I'd welcome are those on my new letterhead. Which should have been printed today. But for a continuing problem with pantones... Unfulfilled, I skived off for lunch with an old mate and we put the world to rights over organic salad and caramel crunch cheesecake. "Designer letterhead and only one contract? Isn't that putting the cart before the horse?" she asked. "It's funny you should mention horses," I replied;-)

Cafe society once meant the bright and beautiful who gathered on the Paris sidewalks to share an espresso. In my part of town, however, it's a reference to stressed out office workers dispossessed by their cookers. Scrambling for seats on uneven inner-city pavements, they throw off their Sunday flip flops and wolf French toast while choking on exhaust fumes. Today, I am fumed out. Breakfast coffees with a mate were followed by brunch with my eldest Godson. As ever, he went into overdrive. Eggs Benedict and then an overflowing bacon ciabatta. But only one latte. And one Coke. I inquired after his wife. "She's behaving herself," he said, tersely, "but she's just squeezed a plasma TV out of me." I considered his considerable girth. "Don't worry - I think you've still got a few in there." For tea I had polenta cake with someone who'd just had her first conjugals in three years. She couldn't walk a straight line: "I think I injured myself." I couldn't walk a straight line either, but that was more insult than injury. After a brilliant dinner in the burbs last night, I got stuck in traffic on the way home. An hour to move 800 yards along the North Circ. At 02.40am. Fume heaven! As I climbed into bed at half past four, I was snuffling like a truffle pig:-o

Up too early for a weekend. I should be hastening to a Wealth and Power seminar. But opted out ten minutes ago. It wasn't a blind decision. The fun started last night. Four hours on the tiniest chair in a West London Ibis. Yet another all-singing all-dancing extravaganza. But this time the speaker was charismatic. And hammy. My favourite bit was the Christmas music as he spun out a homily about his childhood in the snow and his "ferocious curiosity". We had to list our goals. I found I didn't believe in any of mine. Am I fearful of making money? Clearly. I certainly don't want it as my focus. Earlier I'd been debating the hoary old question of who pays the bill. I'd lunched in town. And we'd gone dutch. The posse were 3:1 - the inviter pays. "Whether business or pleasure, that's the etiquette," stated the loudest possette. "It's an investment in the future." I too am of this mind. It removes uncertainty. If the invitee says "Thanks" and buggers off, you've lost them. If they say "Thanks. I'll get the next one," you've got a strike. The quietest possette wavered. "Men, particularly, are frightened to pay," she said. "In case the woman thinks it's patronising." Bloody hell - it's only money! Giving is a prelude to, and part of, bonding. An offering of oneself. To pay everytime is iniquitious. To pay when you're setting the stage - irrespective of gender - is a statement of intent.

For the eleven years I was with my husband, I was sexually invisible. Two weeks after he'd left, I was walking along lost in thought when a car that had just passed me, reversed back. "Can you tell me the way to xxxxx" asked the man inside. I'd never heard of the place. "To be honest, it was just an excuse to talk to you," he said. "You're lovely. Can I give you a lift?" Gobsmacked, I dispatched him, but more of the same soon followed. Without being aware of it, I was signalling availability. Last night a dear friend hitting sixty, came for dinner. Her husband is longterm ill. In recent months it's started to chafe. And in that time, four men have made moves on her. "I don't understand it," she said. "Why now after twenty-five years of nothing?" As many former spouses can testify, one isn't always looking for change when the opportunity presents. But, almost certainly, they've been letting off a signal that attracts predators. "I'm so tempted to give in to one of them," my friend said. "But I feel so bad. What should I do?" In youth, the happy-ever-after ideal feels so easy. In middle-age the complexities within a relationship create webs of insecurity and deceit. "If I were you, I'd go with the flow," I said.

It's a bad night when you have to send back a mango lassi. My companions in crime - a celebrity, a rock star's bodyguard, and a local government person - struggled womanfully on with their thick and frothy beverages as a dry and tasteless sev puri became the second target of my opprobrium. "Even the food here's crap." We'd pitched up at the curry caff in Soho after a piece of theatre that reminded us of Creature Comforts, but with Asians instead of Nick Park creations. No plasticine. We were so busy debating its merits that we'd missed all the warning signs on entering the gaff. Like a shortage of punters, noise, and plates greater than six inches in diameter. We were there because one of our party knew the owner. "He needs support," she said. Halfway through the meal it was clear why. But our order was in the bag by then. Earlier, I'd enjoyed two coffee meetings followed by a buffet lunch with power networkers. Profiteroles and business cards. It's difficult to judge a person's proficiency if there's no cause to test the practical applications of their service. Is it enough that you can laugh together? I must ask my mate how many laughs she's had with her restaurant owning pal. That may provide some indication;-)

I have often wondered about people who have one 'type'. For example, if all Rod Stewart's girlfriends stood with their backs to him, could he honestly tell one from another? Today I lunched with a man who was the spit of my previous paramour. Slimmer, a bit younger, not as bullish, but... Last week at a science conference there was a discussion about superstition and how we associate characteristics with inanimate objects. People wouldn't, for example, touch serial-killer Fred West's cardigan because they felt it was somehow imbued with his evil. The same is true of animate objects. Especially when they trigger deja-vue. On that basis, it took a glass of wine for my fight-or-flight mechanism to reset over roast lamb and tatties. As it turned out, there were no spooky resonances in our conversation. But I felt it wise not to ask if he'd often broken bread with dark women sporting barrage balloons for buttocks:-o

I've been thinking about household chores. Which are sexy and which not. Cleaning the toilet is clearly a zero. As is washing the floor. And making the beds. Which is why I have a char. Even when penniless. Two years ago she took a quarter of my gross earnings. My childfree, flat-living friends, sneer at the indulgence. "She's essential," I reply, "And I'm helping feed families across Brazil." But the one job I do myself is the ironing. For the last 48 hours I've been a one-woman Chinese laundry. Ten washloads since the girls got home. Piles of pressing. "That is so unsexy" said a mate to whom I described my day. Not true. Ironing is strangely erotic. It's all that steam. And the satisfactory smoothing out of creases... I know a woman who irons in her garden in the nude. It's seasonal, obviously. But she gives a whole new meaning to turning up the heat;-)

Out with the cocktail crowd in Chiswick, a London burb full of mee-ja folk, I gingerly enter a pretentious private club newly spawned from a West End luvvies' haunt. The problem is, Chiswick luvvies are home with their families. So the place is filled with smart bridge and tunnel folk playing table football. I arrive after a workshop for board directors. "I've discovered I'm a theorist!" I announce to my bemused mates who, bizarrely, are lounging in slashed cocktail dresses and slinky kitten tops. "That means I only take action when I understand what it's for and why it's necessary." They're confused. I explain the other types: the pragmatists, activists and reflectors. "We have to know each other's MO, so everyone's learning needs are met by the board. It's about personal diversity." Even I can't pretend interest after this point... Taking collective comfort from drink, we indulge in a mixture of flirtinis, fruitinis and other bastardisations of the real thing: the perfect raspberry martini. Nothing touches the one at Smiths:-o As our brains slow, conversation becomes a foot-dragging meander around celebrity liposuction and increased sex drives during pregnancy. One of our party tells a story of a friend whose husband has announced he won't father her child but "doesn't mind her having one by someone else." There's silence. "He's clearly a mix between a reflector and a pragmatist," I say:-o

For some weeks now, I've been sporting a mullet. Partly it's down to perimenopausal rage. Everytime I can't find chocolate, I lynch an inch. But it's also because our local salon became a nail bar. So I cut my hair myself. All summer I looked like an extra from Spinal Tap. This morning at The Wet Fish Cafe the coffee was flowing. But amongst the regular posse, our cups were empty. Boobs like tired piping bags. "I used to worry they'd drop to my waist," I yowled. "Now they barely take rib room!" One of our group sadly shovelled down her poached eggs: "Thanks for the mammaries." A mullet and no boobs - a lifetime of ambiguous femininity loomed before me. "I've got to pretty up!" I cried. First stop was the snipper at Brent Cross. Second stop the Hello Boys department at M&S. From drudge to siren for a mere £100! The progeny called. "We're going to the Taj Mahal tomorrow, Mum." "Enjoy youselves," I said distractedly, admiring the bounce in my hair and blouse. I tripped off for tea in Hendon. "Notice anything different?" The hostess examined me minutely: "Did you get that tooth whitening paste?" No. "Period bloat? Plucked brows? New earrings?" I did a twirl. Her face lit up. "I've got it: new jeans!"

Emerging from a technicolor meal in Docklands - part of which is pictured here - I was confronted by the dizzy brightness of Canary Wharf. On the back of a disturbing magic mushroom experience - a Turkish meal that in some parts was toxic yellow and in others a pale brown concealed under a grey lumpen glop that looked like Dracula vomit - the skyscrapers of Mammon felt almost friendly. If beetroot turns your pee red, what does the spectrum of E numbers, masquerading innocently behind nursery colours, do to the more serious stuff that comes out? An interesting thought to sleep on on a Friday night;-)

In a Central London hotel room I am communing with positive people. From the stage, a fitness expert leads us through an aerobic warm-up. Star jumps are tough on dodgy knees... Then it's down to the real business. Self-help through group ecstasy - the Billy Graham approach to success. Speakers arrive to a fanfare, extolling the virtues of self fulfilment and wealth. For Thatcher's generation, the one is unimaginable without the other. We're given free books. On how to become millionaires. A woman tells us she can turn us into butterflies. "Leave behind the corpses of your caterpillars. That is your past." I turn to my companion: "She means the chrysalis. The butterfly is the caterpillar." My mate nods distractedly. Inevitably, my mind wanders. Why should elephants have four knees? How long is a piece of string? Would the eccentric who turned down the Fields Medal also have refused a Gracie Fields medal? Finally, it's break time. And there's a competition! To win a whole weekend of self-improvement:-o Heading into the foyer, I celebrate the respite with apple and cucumber juice. My companion is of the happy-clappy persuasion. "I'd say," I venture, tentatively, "that there are better ways of spending a Wednesday night." She scans the room and nods. I have to run to keep up as she exits the building.

A sunny Sunday in Suffolk. My friend's bitser, suitably primped, has been entered at the local dog show. She parades haphazardly with pedigree mutts who trot upright and stiff-legged like City gents. The judge checks her teeth. She bares them and growls. He feels her stomach. She barks. He goes to lift her. She runs away. My friend is not one to give up. Her pooch is entered in four further rounds. For the pairs section, the owner of a large dog of indeterminate origin is invited to partner them. The two mutts stand side-by-side like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny De Vito in Twins. "Did you not realise they had to be matching dogs?" I hiss, as a minging pair of Border Terriers grab the prize. She's nonplussed: "They didn't say." Finally, in the Family Dogs section, there's success. The judge, I suspect, has made a sympathy call. Over dinner we relive the highlights. This includes a timed hurdles over a line of haybales. "They said our little darling was almost a good as a lurcher," my friend reports proudly. Her poor pet, meanwhile, has passed out in the corner.