This morning, a work call. "Could you write a piece on the loss of innocence?" This was, it turned out, a reference to Daniel Radcliffe in the buff. And the effect this might have had on my children. Who did indeed express outrage - eeewwwwwww - at snaps of his boyish nakedness. In that sense, it's been a tough few days for my youngest. I took her to Faust on Friday. In a warehouse in Wapping. Wearing masks, we wandered aimlessly in the dark. Through five floors of eerily decked rooms. Around us, dramatic action broke out intermittently. Then came the crescendo. Faust, stripped bare. My youngest jabbed my shoulder. "Why are we watching this?" "Hang on a sec," I said. It was the closest I'd been to a naked man in eons;-) On Sunday, lunch with my favourite environmentalists. Conversation traversed the globe - Antarctica, the Galapagos, Tahiti and the Amazon. And kept returning to matters entomological. Stories of rats crunching on cockroaches as sewers burst in eastern climes. And flies that fry your eyes. Forget the jungle holiday, I muttered, chewing on pork with apricots. Which brings me to my tum. It is finally better. But larger than ever. Because I've been gorging. In the mistaken hope the bug would dispatch it all. Yesterday in town, a serious lunch. Two fish courses. Across the table, a grandee pontificated about "hewers of wood and drawers of water". Our subject was vocational education. How to get it on an equal footing with academic achievement. I felt his references were less than helpful:-(

A blogging deja vu. I should be at the Coliseum right now. But due to... etc. And it's entirely my fault! Because I went to lunch at The Cinnamon Club. Where the prix fixe lunch is utterly sensational. And the Cinnamon Bellinis! To die for:-) Throw in a good gossip and... I can't complain. I was warned. "No spice for a month," the doctor said yesterday, "It causes flare ups." So muggins here visits London's finest Indian restaurant... The kids are currently at Marriage of Figaro with my ma:-( And yet, a glorious day... This morning I went to Central Office. Whatever I was expecting, I didn't find it. At one point over coffees, a person of exceptional size mooched by. I got the giggles. My hostess was a woman whose research methodology is taking feminist thinking into whole new policy areas. She looked nonplussed. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that all human kind is in evidence here." It was like the Wookie Bar in Star Wars. Afterwards, I chatted on the doorstep with a young Asian I'd passed earlier. "We're really going to change things," he said. At that moment, my lunch guest tripped by. "I thought I was late!" We had a jolly couple of hours before she dashed to a meeting. And I got talking with two adjacent Americans. They were discussing the Taj Mahal. "We're put off visiting because it's a tourist trap." I let this go. They were nowhere near it, anyway. And were Hillary supporters. "I hope she gets in," I said. "She did a sterling job last time."

I should be in the Richard Steele tonight. Listening to my favourite trumpeter. But, laid low by aches and extended flatulence I remain indoors. Tending the progeny. Who yesterday starred in a Sunday newspaper. When their father's tale of Himalayan derring-do was finally published. Generally I don't do sour. Though I do of course stretch to ironic. And waspish. But there was a line in his tale that stuck in my throat. When the three cooks who'd supplied fresh meals throughout their great endurance, made them a cake. Iced with the historic words 'we are family'. Que? I rather think it's me who provides the family. Day in and day out. It's him that provides the light relief. And the second family. Oh all right. He's clearly a good father. But. If I had false teeth I'd have swallowed them in rage. Jealousy. Bad grace. And sadness, that I don't stretch to that sort of jolly... Yet. Though I'm working on giving up the Martini habit;-) As it happens, swallowing teeth is a possible at the moment. Because they're going to rot. From the bloody acid my tummy's throwing up. I went to the doctor today. It's a bug apparently. That's why I'm bloated and bent in two. A contortion that could win me work with the Cirque du Soleil. Thankfully cocodamol and high octane bile busting drugs are already masking the discomfort. So I'll be fit for purpose tomorrow. Meeting Conservative Women. Yes, you've read right. Research. Over tea in Victoria Street. How weird is that?

Sitting on the bog at 4am, I wondered how it is that my mates get tummy bugs and go down a size, and I get a bug and bloat like a dead whale. It started earlier in the week. A low level ache. By Valentine's night it was an ache and a swelling. "I look like the head's engaged," I warned my date for the evening. "Do you want to cancel?" she asked. I nearly choked. Alone on Valentines? Social death!! In the absence of romance, good conversation will do;-) My partner in crime was a scarily smart lobbyist. I met her and a financier friend for a drink in St James. I was late. Because I couldn't do up my trousers. My belly was tight as a drum. No give. Even when I lay on the floor:-o Flirting was off the menu. Though later, I consumed sushi. And felt immediately worse. Last night, out with the cocktail crowd and my Irish guest. To The Lyric, Hammersmith. For a dreadful production of The Ramayana. "I thought you'd enjoy it," said the outing organiser. "After all, you did set a novel around it." "D'you know," I replied, "I was trying to remember the story on the way here and it was only as I parked that I made the connection." Silence. I'm not sure who felt more stupid. Certainly I was more stupid. Anyway it was awful. And my belly was hurting again. So four of us left at the interval. And went to a Bulgarian bistro on King Street. Where the other two joined us later. By that time I was doubled up with tummy pain. So I bought a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. From the next door shop. And drank the lot. You know the rest.

Last night, dinner with a beautiful photographer of my acquaintance. It was the first time in nine years we'd dined alone. Despite many social visits to each other's homes with children in tow. She started to unfold her complex private life. For which, read love life. By the fish stew, I was so confused by the reality, the possibilities, and the people in the wings just-in-case, that I came home grateful to be solitary. Correction: relatively solitary. My NYC pal's still around, though she booked out for a few days this morning. It was so lovely being alone, I stayed in pyjamas till five. This window of content, alas, soon closes. On Thursday, a friend from Ireland arrives. I love my mates, but why half term which is precious me-time? It's like the Hot Sheet Motel. Before yesterday's dinner, I had tea in town. With an elegant Russian. A geisha expert. She'd invited me to the Ritz. But on arrival, I was barred. "Sorry Madam, no jeans allowed." How quaint;-) We ended up in the Fountain Restaurant at Fortnum's. Which I'd read had been revamped. If so, the change is miniscule. It still looks like a bad stage set from the 1970s. Alison Steadman took the table next to us. If she'd gone into role as Beverly from Abigail's Party, not one eyebrow would have activated. The punters were strangely huge. My hostess, inevitably svelte but not underweight, looked a size zero in comparison. And I, just pleasantly plump:-) Tonight I realised I hadn't sent my children Valentines. Because they're not here:-( Will they remember, I wonder?

Last night, the Ooh Laa Laa Bar. Where the drinks are as bad as the spelling. And the food even worse. Halfway through my first Martini, my mate passed me her iPod. Snaps of a party in the Big Apple. Her husband's 80th. Let me tell you, there is nothing more scary than stills of a toothless octogenarian. With his hand inside the thong of a Naomi Campbell lookalike. "He loves African Americans," explained my mate airily, "So I got him a stripper." He doesn't, of course, have stiffies. But it still feels morally unsound:-o My mate is thirty years her spouse's junior. A latter-day Anna Nicole Smith. She, poor sap, died last week. Still fighting over her husband's will. He was a nonagenarian billionaire. She, his 26-year-old bride. "The great thing about my old man," said my pal, "is I get his crip sticker. I can park anywhere in Manhattan." Earlier I'd attended my first writer's club meeting. In the kitchen. Three of us each reading a thousand words from our new novels. I hate self help groups. But it really made a difference. I've been restructuring ever since. Tonight, the Oxo Tower. We waited three hours for a table. By which time my rather straight companion, was under it. They do stonkingly good champagne cocktails. She's invited me to spend a week in Palestine. "We'll do some fact finding." Some facts, I'd posit, are better researched by experts. On the other hand, it's good to be out in the sun;-)

One snowfall and western civilisation as we know it, slides to a halt. I've had to cancel a promising lunch because the kids are home. One of the schools is shut. The other out of reach. Because the Jubilee Line is AWOL. Yet a friend who landed at Heathrow at seven, was mini-cabbed here by 9.30. Typically it's now melting. As the pic shows:-o Last night the eldest and I went to the theatre. Waves at the Cottesloe. It was one of the most extraordinary productions I've seen. The eight piece ensemble used sound and film in a way that took your breath. The narrator was straight from the 1930s. It was like having Woolf on stage. On a par with The Pillowman for off-the-wall brilliance. As the lights came on, I got both a hug and a kiss. "That was fantastic, Mum. Thank you." Blimey: what a pay off:-) Earlier I'd spoken with a practitioner of Eastern arts. A woman who promises to realign the sensual and the feminine within us. Within us women, that is. I could certainly do with help:-o Meanwhile letters have been flying on my biogs idea. CEOs with stories, please apply here;-) All in all, it's been a good week. My New York pal, formerly of the broken toes, is back in town. I forecast lively nights ahead! Especially as, tomorrow, the girls go skiing with their father. Earlier this year there was talk that the alps were a snow-free zone. I suppose, if worst comes to worst, they could winter holiday in Stoke:-o

Yesterday I met four adults with viral conjunctivitis. It struck me then that my blocked tearduct is a variation of the same. I googled up information. It lasts for weeks! How horrible is that? Two of the harbingers of doom are new friends. We popped by their house. On the way home from lunching at my mum's. Cashew nut curry. Deee-licious. The house was lovely. Galleryesque. And our hostess was pie-eyed. After a lunch party. She took me into her confidence. "My husband isn't just an arsehole, he's a c**t." That got my attention I can tell you. I occasionally had foul thoughts about my ex. But never enough to utter them aloud. Yet so many women whose marriages remain sound in middle age, spout thus. Is it necessary to hate as well as love in order to be happy? Discuss. On Friday night, the youngest and I went to the opera. Apollo and Hyacinth. Written by Mozart. Aged 11. And performed by schoolgirls at the methodist church in Hinde Street. Utterly fab. The eldest, meanwhile, was at a 16th birthday party. In a Hampstead restaurant. Hired by three of her Asian classmates. I picked her up at half eleven. With two of her friends who were sleeping over. "It was brilliant!" They'd all stuffed their faces, danced, taken pics, and flirted with some scuzzy boys. Despite the only drinks being fruit juice or milkshakes. It made me think of Big Brother and the Shilpa effect. There's a lot to be said for an abstemious lifestyle.

Despite knowing better, I still asume we all live variations of the same life. My life. I was outraged, then, when someone called me twenty minutes ago. To pick my brain. In the middle of the PM's interview on Today. My caller fashions herself as a high-level mover and shaker. Nil points! That said, it was a dull exchange. The interview, that is. The PM gave nothing away. Humphreys may as well have asked, "Prime Minister, do you take snuff?" Each morning this week, they've played a trail on the show. For a programme on noise. Each time, I stop and listen. "Can you hear the low level sounds we're playing?" No. I can't! But my eldest always does. As a result I've been worrying that I'm deaf. Last night, a TV company for which I once, accidentally, presented a sex series, held it's twentieth birthday party. In a club called Sound. Within seconds of arriving, I couldn't hear anything at all. Except the band. People spoke to me. I was totally lost. I just nodded and made what I thought were appropriate faces. I honestly have no idea what anyone said. Hitting the sack at 2am, I was further deafened. By the ringing in my ears. Horror. Then, this morning, the kitchen smelled of fish. Horror upon horror! The kids came down. "Ewwww.... what's that stink?" After they'd gone, I discovered a melon rotting and leaking behind the breadbin. And then Tony came on. You know the rest;-)