A joyful evening in Covent Garden with a new mate is temporarily halted by a sudden view of her underarm fuzz. Regular readers will know that I had a similar encounter during a women's meeting a few weeks back when I was left nonplussed, not just by the abundance of hirsute pits on display, but by the care with which the tresses had been combed. Tonight's follicular glories were curly - like pubic hair impishly transplanted by Puck during a fallout with Titania. I nearly inhaled my crayfish in horror. Moments like these are confusing for a feminist. How does one balance the personal with the political? Perhaps this is how Tony Blair feels when he sends his children across town to better schools than are found in Westminster? I finished my meal with a sense of deep guilt. I'm sure she wasn't judging me, and I look like a butterball turkey. What right did I have to judge her for sporting... merkins?

The kids are off to camp on Wednesday. In the meantime my office is their storeroom. The floor is littered with rucksacks, sleeping bags, tents, fleeces, billy cans, waterproofs, suncreams, walking boots and a huge pile of faux designer clothing. This belongs to my eldest. Who hones in on boys like a heat-seeking missile. She can't be seen traversing the Yorkshire cowpats actually looking like a camper. So half of Top Shop has been amassed. I have successfully vetoed the lined broderie anglais coat. But the white sneakers have sneaked through. This for a camp so basic, they pooh in a hand-dug lat. Emptying a large suitcase to accommodate her excess baggage, I came across some detritus from my own travels. Last year's abortive romancing in Laos. The Mekong is beautiful this time of year... Tomorrow we are dog-sitting. And my German sister-in-law, ex, arrives with two children in tow. Who are also going to camp. A woman with a heart of pure gold and a tongue of sharpened steel, she once bemoaned the lack of good daytime telly. "All they show is stupid war films, always making out the Germans are the baddies." Her Jewish husband nearly swallowed his spoon at this. His family, puce but ever gracious, moved the conversation swiftly on. Happy days:-)

Out in County Kilburn we pitched up at Rob Newman's latest show. Clever, passionate and funny, he is so... not funny. There is cynicism inherent in everything he says. Of course there were laughs. Some were inspired. But he managed, nonetheless, to end on an absolute downer. As if it it's our fault that idealism is dead and you can't buy Fairtrade lager. Perhaps it is - but we're victims too! He gave us the history of the world told backwards. A wonderful conceit and perfect for punters with several degrees including ancient civilisations, world politics, military strategy, nuclear fission and orthopaedic surgery. The rest of us only got forty per cent of the jokes. And pretended, or slept, through the rest. Sitting near the front, I had a view straight up his nostrils. His channels are very narrow. Funnily enough, he once kissed me. Rather... moistly. In a corridor at Jongleurs, in Clapham. It was a long time ago:-( I was encumbered that evening with a drunk who painted well but held drink badly. There was no opportunity to further the promise of romance as I was searching out friends to help me hoist him in the car and dump him at his midden. The drunk that is, not Mr Newman. I'd fantasized that our eyes would meet during tonight's show and we'd both get palpitations, but if it happened, it must have been while I was dozing. And yes, I'm tired. One child has finished school. The other - a joyous 15 yesterday - is enjoying an end of year social whirl. This is their weekend with their father. I waved them out of the door - correction: pushed them out of the door - with some relief. It's been one of those weeks. Tomorrow I have promised myself a lie-in:-)

Yesterday, I lunched with the schoolgate mums. One is a soprano and the other a plumber. Though the plumber is returning to IT. There was an ant in the salt and bits of clingfilm on my steak. The waitress noted both aberrations and shrugged. This morning I went to Waitrose. The last time I was there, I bumped a middle-aged man as he struggled a whining toddler into a trolley seat. Apologising, I helped him get her sorted. Meanwhile, a slightly larger child was kicking at his legs. "Have a good day," I said. He snarled. You could hear those kids whining all around the store. It was like living the Doppler effect. Daddy of course, was unfazed. I suppose, as the Mayor of London, he deals with far worse shit every day;-) But I digress. Today in the store, the service was surly beyond belief. And it was only half past eight! The cashier threw down my grapes. I could have sold them as Blue Nun nouveau. What's wrong with everybody? Every summer as we head for silly season, urban tensions increase. So much to do, so little time... Over puddings yesterday, we were discussing our own anxieties. The soprano's work is seasonal. The plumber gets more callouts for websites than toilets. And me - well, you know where I am in all this... Roll on August when a baffle board of calm falls on the great metropolis:-)

We're twenty minutes into the World Cup final. The phone goes. "Hello, it's Cathy from Radio Five Live." I politely explain it's the sporting fixture of the... every four years. "Sorry. I'll keep it short," she says. "We're having an education debate at midnight. Can you talk about single-sex schooling?" "I'm happy to," I reply politely, "but can we discuss it after the game?" We're ten minutes into extra time. The phone goes. "Hello it's Cathy from Five Live." I stay calm: "Cathy, the game's into extra time." "I know," she says. "That's why we're running late. We're postponing the debate till later in the week. Is that all right?" As I struggled out a polite farewell, my youngest said: "You really wouldn't expect a sports station to be ringing people during a cup final, would you?" Precisely. Thankfully, I was able to assuage any residual frustration when Zidane chest-butted one of the pretty Italian blokes. The whole game was like that pitiful eighties single Torn Between Two Lovers. I was torn between a mainly black team representing a racist nation, or a bung-implicated team representing a fascist nation. In the run-up, I'd opted to support France. I thought victory might be a unifying force. But it was Italy I kept cheering. Because they're small and fierce and cute. And they were the dog's bollocks in extra time against Germany. Now, the household can return to its natural state of football apathy. Making, of course, the odd exception for Liverpool (me) and Arsenal (youngest):-)

Writing a piece about my mum for a new anthology, I recalled how the tiny room in which we lived till I was thirteen, often held up to ten people at meal times. There was one armchair and a double bed. They'd perch around its edges or sit on the floor. My mum prepared feasts on a two ringed Belling cooker. We had jack shit, but what we had we shared. Our social life was one glorious whirl. Because our friends were the same. That support structure is still strong, forty years on. Earlier this week, my richest friend had a birthday dinner in Soho. For the first time I can remember, she paid. This was so out of character, the consensus was that she'd brokered a deal with the club owner. Not one guest believed she was doing it for the joy of giving. Because few people who can, do... What is it about money that it strips us of our internal lives? Our concerns change to the external. We cherish bank statements, the car, the holidays. The emphasis changes from giving to getting. It's easier to pay a happiness coach £100 an hour, than spend that amount generating happiness with others. My youngest is spending the weekend with an old mate: one of six kids in a small council flat. The dad, a postal worker, does nights so he can help after school. As she left, I handed over spending money. "Don't be silly," the mum said. "We're taking them to Margate tomorrow and doing a barbie on Sunday. She doesn't need money. We've got everything that's necessary." I watched them go enviously. Because they have:-)

Tuesday afternoon, I addressed a corporate press office on the finer points of video production. They were young and eager, aware that their pedigree in this dark art was embarrassing at best and losing them revenue at worst. Things started well. Lots of smiles and busy scribbling. Then came the crunch question. "How would you describe your main product and what are its applications?" Not one of them could answer comprehensively. Lots of headlines, no context. While this isn't unusual - it's much easier to describe the functions of a tumble dryer or a Rich Tea biscuit than a corporate service - it's fairly vital if you're in charge of external communications and busily commissioning videos. In the middle of the discussion, their boss arrived. It was like a dark shadow had entered the room. Individual lights started going out. I explained that we were defining the product in terms of video representation. She argued every point. Her premise was that the nature of their service made even conventional competence in this area, impossible. She was smart. She argued from every angle. And then, inevitably, concluded in accordance with what was being suggested. We'd then continue happily for a few minutes and off she went again... Stoically, I fought off death from both frustration and heat stroke and emerged triumphant. By the time I headed back out into the sun, there was a raging discussion about their USP. Once that's sorted, the rest is simple - communicating properly is an art, not a science. In the meantime, I'm happy to keep going back and putting them on track;-)

On Saturday night, after our ignominious departure from German shores - what a twat that doughball Rooney, is - and an uplifting episode of Dr Who - uplifting because Rose is at last on her way out - I set foot for Hoxton. Once a hotbed of NF activity, it is now an arty hub surrounded by ringroads and fit blokes who read The Guardian. I was hot to trot. But... on entering our comedy club of choice, my mate and I found the punters consisted of four large hen parties and three couples. The local boys were in the Dog and Duck weeping into their beers. The only single man was a blow up doll with an enormous penis. Right totem, wrong consistency. There was also a woman with inflated boobs that sat solidly in her lycra top like the Elgin Marbles. We disgraced ourselves by making laddish remarks about being smothered to death and deploying her as a scud missile. The first act was a former teacher who, having failed to raise the youth of our country to new highs, similarly failed with the over 25s. The second was a gay muslim GP intent on hitting all the discomfort buttons. He was so clever-clever you needed a degree to get half his jokes, but he was funny. Finally, a middle-aged Aussie with a Stratocaster took the stage. Within seconds she had stripped off to display her flab. In a room of women, this was the equivalent of baring one's soul. Alternately embarrassed and delighted, we were then reduced to hysterics by her Shirley Bassey skit. There are times when the absence of men is a deeply affirming experience:-)