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;-)