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...